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I 





# 




JALNA 


Pp Jffla^o be la &ocf)e 

Explorers of the Dawn 

Possession 

Low Life 

Delight 

Jalna 



JALNA 

BY 

MAZO DE LA ROCHE 



BOSTON 

LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY 
1928 


Copyright, 1927, 

By Little, Brown, and Company 
All rights reserved 



Published October, 1927 
Reprinted October, 1927 (four times) 
Reprinted November, 1927 (twice) 
Reprinted December, 1927 
Reprinted January, 1928 
Reprinted February, 1928 


THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY PRESS PUBLICATIONS 
ARE PUBLISHED BY 
LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY 
IN ASSOCIATION WITH 
THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY COMPANY 


•b 


Printed in the United States of America 




To the memory of 


MY FATHER 


r 


CONTENTS 


I The Rake's Progress. 3 

II The Family. 17 

III Ernest and Sasha. 38 

IV Nicholas and Nip. 45 

V Piers and His Love. 53 

VI Pheasant and Maurice. 68 

VII Piers and Pheasant Married .... 79 

VIII Welcome to Jalna. 88 

IX Eden and Alayne ..103 

X Alayne and Life.115 

XI Beloved, It Is Morn ..121 

XII Welcome Again to Jalna.128 

XIII Inside the Gates of Jalna.137 

XIV Finch.163 

XV More about Finch.171 

XVI “In the Place Where the Tree 

Falleth ”.181 

XVII Pilgrim's Progress.201 

XVIII In the Wind and Rain.222 

XIX A Variety of Scenes.236 

XX Merry Gentlemen.258 

XXI Eden and Pheasant.280 

XXII Wakefield's Birthday.287 

XXIII June Night at Jalna.304 

XXIV The Flight of Pheasant.317 

XXV Fiddler's Hut.329 

XXVI Grandmother's Birthday.340 



























JALNA 








I 

THE RAKE’S PROGRESS 

Wakefield Whiteoak ran on and on, faster and faster, 
till he could run no farther. He did not know why he 
had suddenly increased his speed. He did not even know 
why he ran. When, out of breath, he threw himself face 
down on the new spring sod of the meadow, he com¬ 
pletely forgot that he had been running at all, and lay, 
his cheek pressed against the tender grass, his heart 
thudding against his ribs, without a thought in his head. 
He was no more happy or unhappy than the April wind 
that raced across his body or the young grass that 
quivered with life beneath it. He was simply alive, 
young, and pressed by the need of violent exertion. 

Looking down into the crowding spears of grass, he 
could see an ant hurrying eagerly, carrying a small white 
object. He placed his finger before it, wondering what 
it would think when it found its way blocked by this tall, 
forbidding tower. Ants were notoriously persevering. 
It would climb up his finger, perhaps, and run across his 
hand. No, before it touched his finger, it turned sharply 
aside and hurried off in a fresh direction. Again he 
blocked its path, but it would not climb the finger. He 
persisted. The ant withstood. Harried, anxious, still 
gripping its little white bundle, it was not to be inveigled 
or bullied into walking on human flesh. Yet how often 
ants had scrabbled over him when he had least wanted 
them! One had even run into his ear once and nearly set 
him crazy. In sudden anger, he sat up, nipped the ant 
between his thumb and forefinger, and placed it firmly on 
the back of his hand. The ant dropped its bundle and lay 


4 JALNA 

down on its back, kicking its legs in the air and twisting 
its body. It was apparently in extreme anguish. He 
threw it away, half in disgust, half in shame. He had 
spoiled the silly old ant’s day for it. Perhaps it would die. 

Briskly he began to search for it. Neither body nor 
bundle of ant was to be seen, but a robin, perched on a 
swinging branch of a wild cherry tree, burst into song. 
It filled the air with its rich throaty notes, tossing them 
on to the bright sunshine like ringing coins. Wakefield 
held an imaginary gun to his shoulder and took aim. 

“Bang!” he shouted, but the robin went on singing 
just as though it had not been shot. 

“Look here,” complained Wakefield, “don’t you know 
when you’re dead? Dead birds don’t sing, I tell you.” 

The robin flew from the cherry tree and alighted on 
the topmost twig of an elm, where it sang more loudly 
than ever to show how very much alive it was. Wake¬ 
field lay down again, his head on his arm. The moist 
sweet smell of the earth was in his nostrils; the sun beat 
warmly on his back. He was wondering now whether 
that big white cloud that he had seen sailing up from the 
south was overhead yet. He would lie still and count one 
hundred — no, a hundred was too much, too sustained a 
mental effort on a morning like this; he would count up 
to fifty. Then he would look up, and if the cloud were 
overhead he would — well, he didn’t know what he 
would do, but it would be something terrific. Perhaps 
he would run at full speed to the creek and jump across, 
even if it were at the widest part. He pushed one hand 
into the pocket of his knickers and fingered his new agate 
marbles as he counted. A delicious drowsiness stole over 
him. A tender recollection of the lovely warm breakfast 
he had eaten filled him with peace. He wondered if it 
were still in his stomach, or had already changed into 
blood and bone and muscle. Such a breakfast should 


THE RAKE’S PROGRESS 


5 


do a great deal of good. He clenched the hand belonging 
to the arm stretched under his head to test its muscle. 
Yes, it felt stronger—no doubt about that. If he kept 
on eating such breakfasts, the day would come when he 
would not stand any nonsense from Finch or from any 
of his brothers, even up to Renny. He supposed he would 
always let Meg bully him, but then Meg was a woman. 
A fellow couldn’t hit a woman, even though she was his 
sister. 

There came no sound of a footstep to warn him. He 
simply felt himself helpless in the grasp of two iron 
hands. He was dazed by a shake, and set roughly on his 
feet, facing his eldest brother, who was frowning sternly. 
The two clumber spaniels at Renny’s heels jumped on 
Wakefield, licking his face and almost knocking him 
down in their joy at discovering him. 

Renny, still gripping his shoulder, demanded: “Why 
are you loafing about here, when you ought to be at Mr. 
Fennel’s? Do you know what time it is? Where are 
your books?” 

Wakefield tried to wriggle away. He ignored the first 
two questions, feeling instinctively that the third led to 
less dangerous channels. “Left them at Mr. Fennel’s 
yesterday,” he murmured. 

“Left them at Fennel’s? How the devil did you ex¬ 
pect to do your home work ? ” 

Wakefield thought a moment. “I used an old book 
of Finch’s for my Latin. I knew the poetry already. 
The history lesson was just to be the same thing over 
again, so’s I’d have time to think up my opinion of 
Cromwell. The Scripture of course I could get out of 
Meg’s Bible at home, and”—he warmed to his subject, 
his large dark eyes shining—“and I was doing the arith¬ 
metic in my head as you came along.” He looked 
earnestly up into his brother’s face. 


6 JALNA 

“A likely story.” But Renny was somewhat con¬ 
fused by the explanation, as he was meant to be. “ Now 
look here, Wake, I don’t want to be hard on you, but 
you ’ve got to do better. Do you suppose I pay Mr. Fen¬ 
nel to teach you for the fun of it? Just because you’re 
too delicate to go to school isn’t any excuse for your 
being an idle little beast without an idea in your head but 
play. What have you got in your pockets?” 

“ Marbles — just a few, Renny,” 

“ Hand them over.” 

Renny held out his hand while the marbles were re¬ 
luctantly extracted from the child’s pockets and heaped 
on his own palm. Wakefield did not feel in the least like 
crying, but his sense of the dramatic prompted him to 
shed tears as he handed over his treasures. He could 
always cry when he wanted to. He had only to shut his 
eyes tightly a moment and repeat to himself, “ Oh, how 
terrible! How terrible!” — and in a moment the tears 
would come. When he made up his mind not to cry, no 
amount of abuse would make him. Now, as he dropped 
the marbles into Renny’s hand, he secretly moaned the 
magic formula, “Oh, how terrible! How terrible!” His 
chest heaved, the muscles in his throat throbbed, and soon 
tears trickled down his cheeks like rain. 

Renny pocketed the marbles. “No sniveling now.” 
But he did not say it unkindly. “And see that you’re 
not late for dinner.” He lounged away, calling his dogs. 

Wakefield took out his handkerchief, a clean one, still 
folded in a little square, put in his pocket by his sister 
that morning, and wiped his eyes. He watched Renny’s 
tall retreating figure till Renny looked back over his 
shoulder at him, then he broke into a jog trot toward the 
rectory. But the freedom of the morning was no longer 
his. He was full of care, a slender, sallow boy of nine, 
whose dark brown eyes seemed too large for his pointed 


THE RAKE’S PROGRESS 


7 

face, wearing a greenish tweed jacket and shorts, and 
green stockings that showed his bare brown knees. 

He crossed the field, climbed a sagging rail fence, and 
began to trot along a path that led beside a muddy, wind¬ 
ing road. Soon the blacksmith shop appeared, noisy and 
friendly, between two majestic elms. An oriole was dart¬ 
ing to and fro from elm to elm, and, when the clanging 
on the anvil ceased for a moment, its sweet liquid song 
was scattered down in a shower. Wakefield stopped in 
the doorway to rest. 

“Good morning, John,” he said to John Chalk, the 
smith, who was paring the hoof of a huge hairy-legged 
farm horse. 

“Good morning,” answered Chalk, glancing up with 
a smile, for he and Wake were old friends. “It’s a 
fine day.” 

“ A fine day for those that have time to enjoy it. I’ve 
got beastly old lessons to do.” 

“ I suppose you don’t call what I’m doing work, eh ? ” 
returned Chalk. 

“Oh, well, it’s nice work. Interesting work. Not 
like history and comp.” 

“What’s ‘comp.’?” 

“Composition. You write about things you’re not 
interested in. Now, my last subject was ‘A Spring 
Walk.’ ” 

“Well, that ought to be easy. You’ve just had one.” 

“Oh, but that’s different. When you sit down to 
write about it, it all seems stupid. You begin, ‘ I set out 
one fine spring morning,’ and then you can’t think of a 
single thing to write about.” 

“Why not write about me?” 

Wakefield gave a jeering laugh. “Who’d want to 
read about you! This comp, stuff has got to be read , 
don’t you see ? ” 


8 JALNA 

Conversation was impossible for a space, while the 
blacksmith hammered the shoe into place. Wakefield 
sniffed the delicious odor of burnt hoof that hung almost 
visibly on the air. 

Chalk put down the large foot he had been nursing, 
and remarked: — 

“There was a man wrote a piece of poetry about a 
blacksmith once. ‘Under a spreading chestnut tree/ it 
began. Ever read it ? He must have wrote it to be read, 
eh?” 

“Oh, I know that piece. It’s awful bunk. And be¬ 
sides, he wasn’t your kind of blacksmith. He didn’t 
get drunk and give his wife a black eye and knock his 
kids around — ” 

“Look here!” interrupted Chalk with great heat. 
“ Cut out that insultin’ kind of talk or I ’ll shy a hammer 
at you.” 

Wakefield backed away, but said, judicially, “There 
you go. Just proving what I said. You’re not the kind 
of blacksmith to write comp, or even poetry about. 
You’re not beautiful. Mr. Fennel says we should write 
of beautiful things.” 

“Well, I know I ain’t beautiful,” agreed Chalk, re¬ 
luctantly. “ But I ain’t as bad as all that.” 

“All what?” Wakefield successfully assumed Mr. 
Fennel’s air of schoolmasterish probing. 

“ That I can’t be writ about.” 

“Well, then, Chalk, suppose I was to write down 
everything I know about you and hand it to Mr. Fennel 
for comp. Would you be pleased?” 

“I say I’ll be pleased to fire a hammer at you if you 
don t clear out! ” shouted Chalk, backing the heavy mare 
toward the door. 

Wakefield moved agilely aside as the great dappled 
flank approached, then he set off down the road—which 


THE RAKE’S PROGRESS 


9 

had suddenly become a straggling street — with much 
dignity. The load of care that he had been carrying slid 
from him, leaving him light and airy. As he approached 
a cottage enclosed by a neat wicket fence, he saw a six- 
year-old girl swinging on the gate. 

“Oo, Wakefield!” she squealed, delightedly. “Come 
an’ swing me. Swing me!” 

“Very well, my little friend,” agreed Wakefield, 
cheerily. “You shall be swung, ad infinitum. Verbum 
sapienti .” 

He swung the gate to and fro, the child laughing at 
first, then shrieking, finally uttering hiccoughing sobs as 
the swinging became wilder, and her foothold less secure, 
while she clung like a limpet to the palings. 

The door of the cottage opened and the mother ap¬ 
peared. 

“ Leave her be, you naughty boy! ” she shouted, run¬ 
ning to her daughter’s assistance. “You see if I don’t 
tell your brother on you! ” 

“Which brother?” asked Wakefield, moving away. 
“ I have four, you know.” 

“ Why, the oldest to be sure. Mr. Whiteoak that owns 
this cottage.” 

Wakefield spoke confidentially now. “Mrs. Wigle, I 
wouldn’t if I were you. It upsets Renny terribly to have 
to punish me, on account of my weak heart, — I can’t go 
to school because of it, — and he’d have to punish me if 
a lady complained of me, of course, though Muriel did 
ask me to swing her and I’d never have swung her if I 
had n’t thought she was used to being swung, seeing the 
way she was swinging as I swung along the street. Be¬ 
sides, Renny might n’t like to think that Muriel was rack¬ 
ing the gate to pieces by swinging on it, and he might 
raise your rent on you. He’s a most peculiar man, and 
he’s liable to turn on you when you least expect it.” 


IO JALNA 

Mrs. Wigle looked dazed. “Very well,” she said, 
patting the back of Muriel, who still sobbed and hic¬ 
coughed against her apron; “but I do wish he’d mend 
my roof, which leaks into the best room like all pos¬ 
sessed every time it rains.” 

“ I ’ll speak to him about it. I ’ll see that it’s mended 
at once. Trust me, Mrs. Wigle.” He sailed off, erect 
and dignified. 

Already he could see the church, perched on an abrupt, 
cedar-clad knoll, its square stone tower rising, almost 
menacing, like a battlement against the sky. His grand¬ 
father had built it seventy-five years before. His grand¬ 
father, his father, and his mother slept in the churchyard 
beside it. Beyond the church and hidden by it was the 
rectory, where he had his lessons. 

Now his footsteps lagged. He was before the shop 
of Mrs. Brawn, who had not only sweets but soft drinks, 
buns, pies, and sandwiches for sale. The shop was sim¬ 
ply the front room of her cottage, fitted with shelves and 
a counter, and her wares were displayed on a table in 
the window. He felt weak and faint. His tongue clove 
to the roof of his mouth with thirst. His stomach felt 
hollow and slightly sick. Plainly, no one on earth had 
ever needed refreshment more than he, and no one on 
earth had less means for the payment for such succor. 
He examined the contents of his pockets, but, though 
there was much in them of great value to himself, there 
was not one cent in hard cash, which was all that Mrs. 
Brawn really cared about. He could see her crimson face 
inside the window, and he smiled ingratiatingly, for he 
owed her thirteen cents and he did not see where he was 
ever going to get the money to pay it. She came to the 
door. 

“Well, young man, what about that money you owe 
me?” She was brusque indeed. 


THE RAKE’S PROGRESS 


ii 


“Oh, Mrs. Brawn, I aren’t feeling very weli 4 this 
morning. I get these spells. I dare say you’ve heard 
about them. I’d like a bottle of lemon soda, please. And 
about paying — ” He passed his hand across his brow 
and continued hesitatingly: “I don’t believe I should 
have come out in the sun without my cap, do you ? What 
was I saying? Oh, yes, about paying. Well, you see my 
birthday’s coming very soon and I’ll be getting money 
presents from all the family. Eighteen cents will seem 
no more to me than thirteen then. Even a dollar will 
be nothing.” 

“When does your birthday come?” Mrs. Brawn was 
weakening. 

Again he passed his hand across his forehead, then 
laid it on his stomach, where he believed his heart to be. 
“ I can’t ezactly remember, ’cos there are so many birth¬ 
days in our family I get mixed up. Between Grand¬ 
mother’s great age and my few years and all those 
between, it’s a little confusing, but I know it’s very soon.” 
As he talked, he had entered the shop and stood leaning 
against the counter. “Lemon soda, please, and two 
straws,” he murmured. 

Peace possessed him as Mrs. Brawn produced the 
bottle, uncorked it, and set it before him with the straws. 

“How is the old lady?” she inquired. 

“Nicely, thank you. We’re hoping she’ll reach one 
hundred yet. She’s trying awfully hard to. ’Cos she 
wants to see the celebration we ’ll have. A party, with a 
big bonfire and skyrockets. She says she’d be sorry to 
miss it, though of course we won’t have it if she’s dead, 
and she couldn’t miss what never really happened, could 
she, even if it was her own birthday party?” 

“You’ve a wonderful gift of the gab.” Mrs. Brawn 
beamed at him admiringly. 

“Yes, I have,” he agreed, modestly. “If I hadn’t, 


12 JALNA 

I’d have no show at all, being the youngest of such a 
large family. Grandmother and I do a good deal of 
talking, she at her end of the line and I at mine. You see, 
we both feel that we may not have many years more to 
live, so we make the most of everything that comes our 
way.” 

“Oh, my goodness, don’t talk that way. You’ll be 
all right.” She was round-eyed with sympathy. “ Don’t 
worry, my dear.” 

“ I’m not worrying, Mrs. Brawn. It’s my sister does 
the worrying. She’s had a terrible time raising me, and 
of course I’m not raised yet.” He smiled sadly, and 
then bent his small dark head over the bottle, sucking 
ecstatically. 

Mrs. Brawn disappeared into the kitchen behind the 
shop. A fierce heat came from there, and the tantalizing 
smell of cakes baking, and the sound of women’s voices. 
What a good time women had! Red-faced Mrs. Brawn 
especially. Baking all the cakes she wanted and selling 
all those she couldn’t eat, and getting paid for them. 
How he wished he had a cake. Just one little hot cake! 

As he drew the lovely drink up through the straws, his 
eyes, large and bright, roved over the counter. .Near him 
was a little tray of packets of chewing gum. He was not 
allowed to chew it, but he yearned over it, especially that 
first moment of chewing, when the thick, sweet, highly 
flavored juice gushed down the throat, nearly choking 
him. Before he knew it — well, almost before he knew 
it — he had taken a packet from the tray, dropped it into 
his pocket, and gone on sucking, but now with his eyes 
tightly closed. 

Mrs. Brawn returned with two hot little sponge cakes 
on a plate and set them down before him. “ I thought 
you’d like them just out of the oven. They’re a present, 
mind. They’ll not go on your account.” 


THE RAKE’S PROGRESS 


13 

He was almost speechless with gratitude. “ Oh, thank 
you, thank you,” was all he could say, at first. Then, 
“But what a shame! I’ve gone and drunk up all my 
soda and now I ’ll have to eat my cakes dry, unless, of 
course, I buy another bottle of something.” His eyes 
flew over the shelves. “ I believe I ’ll take ginger ale 
this time, Mrs. Brawn, thank you. And those same straws 
will do.” 

“All right.” And Mrs. Brawn opened another bottle 
and plumped it down before him. 

The cakes had a delicious crisp crust and, buried in 
the heart of each, about six juicy currants. Oh, they 
were lovely! 

As he sauntered from the shop and then climbed the 
steep steps to the church, he pondered on the subjects 
assigned for to-day’s lessons. Which of his two most 
usual moods, he wondered, would Mr. Fennel be in? 
Exacting, alert, or absent-minded and drowsy? Well, 
whatever the mood, he was now at the mercy of it, little, 
helpless, alone. 

He trotted through the cool shadow of the church, 
among the gravestones, hesitating a moment beside the 
iron fence which enclosed his family’s plot. His eyes 
rested on the granite plinth bearing the name “White- 
oak ”; then, wistfully, on the small stone marked “ Mary 
Whiteoak, wife of Philip Whiteoak.” His mother’s 
grave. His grandfather lay there too; his father; his 
father’s first wife, — the mother of Renny and Meg; — 
and several infant Whiteoaks. He had always liked this 
plot of ground. He liked the pretty iron fence and the 
darling little iron balls that dangled from it. He wished 
he could stay there this morning and play beside it. He 
must bring a big bunch of the kingcups that he had seen 
spilled like gold along the stream yesterday, and lay 
them on his mother’s grave. Perhaps he would give a 


i 4 JALNA 

few to the mother of Renny and Meg also, but none to 
the men, of course; they wouldn’t care about them; nor 
to the babies, unless to “ Gwynneth, aged five months/’ 
because he liked her name. 

He had noticed that when Meg brought flowers to the 
graves she always gave the best to her own mother, 
“Margaret,” while to “Mary” — his mother and Eden’s 
and Piers’s and Finch’s — she gave a smaller, less beauti¬ 
ful bunch. Well, he would do the same. Margaret 
should have a few, but they should be inferior — not 
wilted or anything, but not quite so fine and large. 

The rectory was a mellow-looking house with a long 
sloping roof and high pointed gable. The front door 
stood open. He was not expected to knock, so he en¬ 
tered quietly, first composing his face into an expression 
of meek receptiveness. The library was empty. There 
lay his books on the little desk in the corner at which 
he always sat. Feebly he crossed the worn carpet 
and sank into his accustomed chair, burying his head 
in his hands. The tall clock ticked heavily, saying, 
“Wake-field - Wake-field —Wake — Wake —Wake 

— Wake — ” Then, strangely, “Sleep—sleep — sleep 

— sleep ...” 

The smell of stuffy furniture and old books oppressed 
him. He heard the thud of a spade in the garden. Mr. 
Fennel was planting potatoes. Wakefield dozed a little, 
his head sinking nearer and nearer the desk. At last he 
slept peacefully. 

He was awakened by Mr. Fennel’s coming in, rather 
earthy, rather dazed, very contrite. 

“ Oh, my dear boy,” he stammered, “ I’ve kept you 
waiting, I’m afraid. I was just hurrying to get my 
potatoes in before the full of the moon. Superstitious, 
I know, but still— Now, let’s see; what Latin was it 
for to-day?” 


THE RAKE’S PROGRESS 


i5 


The clock buzzed, struck twelve. 

Mr. Fennel came and bent over the little boy. “How 
have you got on this morning?” He was peering at the 
Latin textbook that Wakefield had opened. 

“ As well as could be expected, by myself, thank you.” 
He spoke with gentle dignity, just touched by reproach. 

Mr. Fennel leaned still closer over the page. “ Um-m, 
let’s see. Etsi in his locis — maturae sunt hiemes —” 

“Mr. Fennel,” interrupted Wakefield. 

“Yes, Wake.” He turned his shaggy beard, on which 
a straw was pendent, toward the boy. 

“ Renny wondered if you would let me out promptly at 
twelve to-day. You see, yesterday I was late for dinner, 
and it upset Grandmother, and at her age — ” 

“ Certainly, certainly. I ’ll let you off. Ah, that was 
too bad, upsetting dear Mrs. Whiteoak. It must not 
happen again. We must be prompt, Wakefield. Both 
you and I. Run along then, and I’ll get back to my 
potatoes.” Hurriedly he assigned the tasks for to-morrow. 

“I wonder,” said Wakefield, “if Tom” (Mr. Fen¬ 
nel’s son), “when he’s got the pony and cart out this 
afternoon, would drop my books at the house for me. 
You see, I’ll need both dictionaries and the atlas. They’re 
pretty heavy, and as I am late already I’ll need to run 
every bit of the way.” 

He emerged into the noontide brightness, light as air, 
the transportation of his books arranged for, his brain 
untired by encounters with Caesar or Oliver Cromwell, 
and his body refreshed by two sponge cakes and two 
bottles of soft drink, ready for fresh pleasurable exertion. 

He returned the way he had come, only pausing once 
to let an importunate sow, deeply dissatisfied with the 
yard where she was imprisoned, into the road. She 
trotted beside him for a short distance, pattering along 
gayly, and when they parted, where an open garden gate 


16 JALNA 

attracted her, she did not neglect to throw a glance of 
roguish gratitude over her shoulder to him. 

Glorious, glorious life! When he reached the field 
where the stream was, the breeze had become a wind that 
ruffled up his hair and whistled through his teeth as he 
ran. It was as good a playfellow as he wanted, racing 
him, blowing the clouds about for his pleasure, shaking 
out the blossoms of the wild cherry tree like spray. 

As he ran, he flung his arms forward alternately like 
a swimmer; he darted off at sudden tangents, shying like 
a skittish horse, his face now fierce with rolling eyes, now 
blank as a gamboling lamb’s. 

It was an erratic progress, and, as he crept through 
his accustomed hole in the cedar hedge on to the shaggy 
lawn, he began to be afraid that he might, after all, be 
late for dinner. He entered the house quietly and heard 
the click of dishes and the sound of voices in the dining 
room. 

Dinner was in progress, the older members of the 
family already assembled, when the youngest (idler, liar, 
thief, wastrel that he was!) presented himself at the door. 


II 

THE FAMILY 

There seemed a crowd of people about the table, and all 
were talking vigorously at once. Yet, in talking, they 
did not neglect their meal, which was a hot, steaming 
dinner, for dishes were continually being passed, knives 
and forks clattered energetically, and occasionally a 
speaker was not quite coherent until he had stopped to 
wash down the food that impeded his utterance with a 
gulp of hot tea. No one paid any attention to Wakefield 
as he slipped into his accustomed place on the right of his 
half sister Meg. As soon as he had begun to come to table 
he had been set there, first in a high chair, then, as he 
grew larger, on a thick volume of British Poets, an 
anthology read by no member of the family and, from the 
time when it was first placed under him, known as 
“ Wakefield’s book.” As a matter of fact, he did not 
need its added inches to be able to handle competently his 
knife and fork now, but he had got used to it, and for a 
Whiteoak to get used to anything meant a tenacious and 
stubborn clinging to it. He liked the feel of its hard 
boards under him, though occasionally, after painful 
acquaintance with Renny’s shaving strop or Meg’s 
slipper, he could have wished the Poets had been padded. 

“ I want my dinner! ” He raised his voice, in a very 
different tone from the conciliatory one he had used 
to Mrs. Brawn, Mrs. Wigle, and the rector. “My 
dinner, please!” 

“ Hush.” Meg took from him the fork with which he 
was stabbing the air. “ Renny, will you please give this child 
some beef. He won’t eat the fat, remember. Just nice lean.” 


18 JALNA 

“ He ought to be made to eat the fat. It’s good for 
him.” Renny hacked off some bits of the meat, adding 
a rim of fat. 

Grandmother spoke, in a voice guttural with food: 
“ Make him eat the fat. Good for him. Children spoiled 
nowadays. Give him nothing but the fat. I eat fat 
and I’m nearly a hundred.” 

Wakefield glared across the table at her resentfully. 
“ Shan’t eat the fat. I don’t want to be a hundred.” 

Grandmother laughed throatily, not at all ill pleased. 
“Never fear, my dear, you won’t do it. None of you 
will do it but me. Ninety-nine, and I never miss a meal. 
Some of the dish gravy, Renny, on this bit of bread. 
Dish gravy, please.” 

She held up her plate, shaking a good deal. Uncle 
Nicholas, her eldest son, who sat beside her, took it from 
her and passed it to Renny, who tipped the platter till 
the ruddy juice collected in a pool at one end. He put 
two spoonfuls of this over the square of bread. “ More, 
more,” ordered Grandmother, and he trickled a third 
spoonful. “Enough, enough,” muttered Nicholas. 

Wakefield watched her, enthralled, as she ate. She 
wore two rows of artificial teeth, probably the most per¬ 
fect, most efficacious that had ever been made. What¬ 
ever was put between them they ground remorselessly 
into fuel for her endless vitality. To them many of her 
ninety-and-nine years were due. His own plate, to which 
appetizing little mounds of mashed potatoes and turnips 
had been added by Meg, lay untouched before him while 
he stared at Grandmother. 

“Stop staring,” whispered Meg, admonishingly, “and 
eat your dinner.” 

“Well, take off that bit of fat, then,” he whispered 
back, leaning toward her. 

She took it on to her own plate. 


THE FAMILY 


19 

The conversation buzzed on in its former channel. 
What was it all about, Wake wondered vaguely, but he 
was too much interested in his dinner to care greatly. 
Phrases flew over his head, words clashed. Probably it 
was just one of the old discussions provocative of endless 
talk: what crops should be sown that year; what to make 
of Finch, who went to school in town; which of Grand¬ 
mother’s three sons had made the worst mess of his life 
— Nicholas, who sat on her left, and who had squandered 
his patrimony on fast living in his youth; Ernest, who 
sat on her right, and who had ruined himself by nebulous 
speculations and the backing of notes for his brothers 
and his friends; or Philip, who lay in the churchyard, 
who had made a second marriage (and that beneath 
him!) which had produced Eden, Piers, Finch, and 
Wakefield, unnecessary additions to the family’s already 
too great burdens. 

The dining room was a very large room, full of heavy 
furniture that would have overshadowed and depressed 
a weaker family. The sideboard, the cabinets, towered 
toward the ceiling. Heavy cornices glowered ponder¬ 
ously from above. Inside shutters and long curtains of 
yellow velours, caught back by cable-like cords, with 
tassels at the ends shaped like the wooden human figures 
in a Noah’s ark, seemed definitely to shut out the rest 
of the world from the world of the Whiteoaks, where 
they squabbled, ate, drank, and indulged in their peculiar 
occupations. 

Those spaces on the wall not covered by furniture 
were covered by family portraits in oil, heavily framed, 
varied in one instance by the bright Christmas supple¬ 
ment of an English periodical, framed in red velvet by 
the mother of Renny and Meg, when she was a gay 
young bride. 

Chief among the portraits was that of Captain Philip 


20 JALNA 

Whiteoak in his uniform of a British officer. He was 
Grandfather, who, if he were living, would have been 
more than a hundred, for he was older than Grand¬ 
mother. The portrait showed a well-set-up gentleman of 
fair skin, waving brown hair, bold blue eyes, and sweet, 
stubborn mouth. 

He had been stationed at Jalna, in India, where he had 
met handsome Adeline Court, who had come out from 
Ireland to visit a married sister. Miss Court not only 
had been handsome and of good family, — even better 
than the Captain’s own, as she had never allowed him to 
forget, — but had had a pleasing little fortune of her 
very own, left to her by a maiden great-aunt, the 
daughter of an earl. The pair had fallen deeply in love, 
she with his sweet, stubborn mouth, and he with her 
long, graceful form, rendered more graceful by volu¬ 
minous hooped skirts, her “waterfall” of luxuriant dark 
red hair, and most of all with her passionate red-brown 
eyes. 

They had been married in Bombay in 1848, a time of 
great uneasiness and strife almost throughout the world. 
They felt no unease and anticipated no strife, though 
enough of that and to spare followed, when much of the 
sweetness of his mouth was merged into stubbornness, 
and the tender passion of her eyes was burned out by 
temper. They were the handsomest, most brilliant 
couple in the station. A social gathering without them 
was a tame and disappointing affair. They had wit, 
elegance, and more money than any others of their youth 
and military station in Jalna. All went well till a baby 
girl arrived, a delicate child, unwanted by the pleasure- 
loving couple, who with its wailing advent brought a 
train of physical ills to the young mother which, in spite 
of all that the doctors and a long and dull sojourn in 


THE FAMILY 


21 


the hills could do, seemed likely to drag her down into 
invalidism. About the same time Captain Whiteoak had 
a violent quarrel with his colonel, and he felt that his 
whole world, both domestic and military, had somehow 
suddenly become bewitched. 

Fate seemed to have a hand in bringing the Whiteoaks 
to Canada, for just at the moment when the doctor in¬ 
sisted that the wife, if she were to be restored to health, 
must live for some time in a cool and bracing climate, the 
husband got notice that an uncle, stationed in Quebec, 
had died, leaving him a considerable property. 

Philip and Adeline had decided simultaneously — the 
only decision of moment except their marriage that 
they ever arrived at without storm and stress — that they 
were utterly sick of India, of military life, of trying to 
please stupid and choleric superiors, and of entertaining 
a narrow, gossiping, middle-class set of people. They 
were made for a freer, more unconventional life. Sud¬ 
denly their impetuous spirits yearned toward Quebec. 
Philip had had letters from his uncle, eloquent on the 
subject of the beauties of Quebec, its desirability as a 
place of residence, its freedom from the narrow con¬ 
ventionalities of the Old World, combined with a grace 
of living bequeathed by the French. 

Captain Whiteoak had a very poor opinion of the 
French, — he had been born in the year of Waterloo, 
and his father had been killed there, — but he liked the 
descriptions of Quebec, and when he found himself the 
owner of property there, with a legacy of money at¬ 
tached, he thought he would like nothing better than to 
go there to live — for a time, at any rate. He visualized 
a charming picture of himself and his Adeline, clinging 
to his arm, parading the terrace by the river after Sunday 
morning service, he no longer in an uncomfortable 
uniform but in tight, beautifully fitting trousers, double- 


22 JALNA 

breasted frock coat, and glittering top hat, all from Lon¬ 
don, while Adeline seemed literally to float amid fringes, 
ruches, and gayly tinted veils. He had other visions of 
himself in company with lovely French girls when Ade¬ 
line would possibly be occupied with a second accouche¬ 
ment, though, to do him justice, these visions never went 
beyond the holding of velvety little hands and the tranced 
gazing into dark-fringed eyes. 

He sold his commission, and the two sailed for Eng¬ 
land with the delicate baby and a native ayah. The few 
relations they had in England did not proffer them a very 
warm welcome, so their stay there was short, for they 
were equally proud and high-spirited. They found time, 
however, to have their portraits painted by a really first- 
class artist, he in the uniform he was about to discard, 
and she in a low-cut yellow evening gown with camellias 
in her hair. 

Armed with the two portraits and a fine collection of 
inlaid mahogany furniture, — for their position must be 
upheld in the Colony, — they took passage in a large sail¬ 
ing vessel. Two months of battling with storms and 
fogs and even icebergs passed like a nightmare before 
they sighted the battlements of Quebec. On the way out 
the ayah died and was buried at sea, her dark form set¬ 
tling meekly into the cold Western waters. Then there 
was no one to care for the baby girl but the young, in¬ 
experienced parents. Adeline herself was ill almost to 
death. Captain Whiteoak would sooner have set out to 
subdue a rebellious hill tribe than the squalling infant. 
Cursing and sweating, while the vessel rolled like a 
thing in torture and his wife made sounds such as he 
had never dreamed she could utter, he tried to wrap the 
infant’s squirming chafed legs in a flannel barrow coat. 
Finally he pricked it with a safety pin, and when he saw 
blood trickling from the tiny wound he could stand it no 


THE FAMILY 


2 3 

longer; he carried the child into the common cabin, where 
he cast it into the lap of a poor Scotchwoman who al¬ 
ready had five of her own to look after, commanding her 
to care for his daughter as best she could. She cared for 
her very capably, neglecting her own hardy bairns, and 
the Captain paid her well for it. The weather cleared, 
and they sailed into Quebec on a beautiful crisp May 
morning. 

But they lived for only a year in that city. The house 
in the Rue St. Louis was flush with the street — a dim 
chilly French house, sad with ghosts from the past. The 
sound of church bells was never out of their ears, and 
Philip, discovering that Adeline sometimes went secretly 
to those Roman churches, began to fear that she would 
under such influence become a papist. But, as they had 
lingered in London long enough to have their portraits 
done, so they lingered in Quebec long enough to become 
the parents of a son. Unlike little Augusta, he was 
strong and healthy. They named him Nicholas, after 
the uncle who had left Philip the legacy (now himself 
“Uncle .Nicholas,” who sat at his mother’s right hand 
when Wakefield entered the dining room). 

With two young children in a cold drafty house; with 
Adeline’s health a source of anxiety; with far too many 
French about Quebec to be congenial to an English 
gentleman; with a winter temperature that played coyly 
about twenty dazzling degrees below zero; the White- 
oaks felt driven to find a more suitable habitation. 

Captain Whiteoak had a friend, a retired Anglo- 
Indian colonel who had already settled on the fertile 
southern shore of Ontario. “Here,” he wrote, “the 
winters are mild. We have little snow, and in the long, 
fruitful summer the land yields grain and fruit in abun¬ 
dance. An agreeable little settlement of respectable 
families is being formed. You and your talented lady, 


24 JALNA 

my dear Whiteoak, would receive the welcome here that 
people of your consequence merit.” 

The property in Quebec was disposed of. The mahog¬ 
any furniture, the portraits, the two infants, and their 
nurse were somehow or other conveyed to the chosen 
Province. Colonel Vaughan, the friend, took them into 
his house for nearly a year while their own was in proc¬ 
ess of building. 

Philip Whiteoak bought from the government a thou¬ 
sand acres of rich land, traversed by a deep ravine 
through which ran a stream lively with speckled trout. 
Some of the land was cleared, but the greater part pre¬ 
sented the virgin grandeur of the primeval forest. Tall, 
unbelievably dense pines, hemlocks, spruces, balsams, 
with a mingling of oak, ironwood, and elm, made a 
sanctuary for countless song birds, wood pigeons, par¬ 
tridges, and quail. Rabbits, foxes, and hedgehogs 
abounded. The edge of the ravine was crowned by 
slender silver birches, its banks by cedars and sumachs, 
and along the brink of the stream was a wild sweet- 
sihelling tangle that was the home of water rats, minks, 
raccoons, and blue herons. 

Labor was cheap. A small army of men was em¬ 
ployed to make the semblance of an English park in the 
forest, and to build a house that should overshadow all 
others in the county. When completed, decorated, and 
furnished, it was the wonder of the countryside. It was 
a square house of dark red brick, with a wide stone porch, 
a deep basement where the kitchens and servants’ quar¬ 
ters were situated, an immense drawing-room, a library 
(called so, but more properly a sitting room, since few 
books lived there), a dining room, and a bedroom on the 
ground floor; and six large bedrooms on the floor 
above, topped by a long, low attic divided into two bed¬ 
rooms. The wainscoting and doors were of walnut. 


THE FAMILY 


25 

From five fireplaces the smoke ascended through pictur¬ 
esque chimneys that rose among the treetops. 

In a burst of romantic feeling, Philip and Adeline 
named the place Jalna, after the military station where 
they had first met. Everyone agreed that it was a pretty 
name, and Jalna became a place for gayety. An atmos¬ 
phere of impregnable well-being grew up around it. 
Under their clustering chimneys, in the midst of their 
unpretentious park with its short, curving drive, with all 
their thousand acres spread like a green mantle around 
them, the Whiteoaks were as happy as the sons of man 
can be. They felt themselves cut off definitely from the 
mother country, though they sent their children to Eng¬ 
land to be educated. 

Two boys were born to them at Jalna. One was 
named Ernest, because Adeline, just before his birth, 
had been entranced by the story of Ernest Maltravers. 
The other was given the name Philip for his father. 
Nicholas, the eldest son, married in England, but after 
a short and stormy life together his wife left him for 
a young Irish officer, and he returned to Canada, never 
to see her again. Ernest remained unmarried, devoting 
himself with almost monastic preoccupation to the study 
of Shakespeare and the care of himself. He had always 
been the delicate one. Philip, the youngest, married 
twice. First, the daughter of a Scotch physician who 
had settled near Jalna, and who had brought his future 
son-in-law into the world. She had given him Meg and 
Renny. His second wife was the pretty young governess 
of his two children who were early left motherless. The 
second wife, treated with coldness by all his family, had 
four sons, and died at the birth of Wakefield. Eden, the 
eldest of these, was now twenty-three; Piers was twenty; 
Finch, sixteen; and little Wake, nine. 

Young Philip had always been his father’s favorite, 


26 JALNA 

and when the Captain died it was to Philip that he left Jalna 
and its acres — no longer, alas, a thousand,, for land had 
had to be sold to meet the extravagances of Nicholas and 
the foolish credulities of Ernest with his penchant for back¬ 
ing other men’s notes. They had had their share, “ more 
than their share, by God,” swore Captain Whiteoak. 

He had never had any deep affection for his only 
daughter, Augusta. Perhaps he had never quite for¬ 
given her the bad time she had given him on the passage 
from England to Canada. But if he had never loved 
her, at least he had never had any cause to worry over 
her. She had married young — an insignificant young 
Englishman, Edwin Buckley, who had surprised them 
all by inheriting a baronetcy, through the sudden deaths 
of an uncle and a cousin. 

If Augusta’s father had never been able to forgive 
her for the intricacies of her toilet on that memorable 
voyage, how much more difficult was it for her mother 
to forgive her for attaining a social position above her 
own! To be sure, the Courts were a far more important 
family than the Buckleys; they were above title-seeking; 
and Sir Edwin was only the fourth baronet; still, it was 
hard to hear Augusta called “her ladyship.” Adeline 
was unfeignedly pleased when Sir Edwin died and was 
succeeded by a nephew, and thus Augusta, in a manner, 
was shelved. 

All this had happened years ago. Captain Whiteoak 
was long dead. Young Philip and both his wives were 
dead. Renny was master of Jalna, and Renny himself 
was thirty-eight. 

The clock seemed to stand still at Jalna. Renny’s 
uncles, Nicholas and Ernest, thought of him as only a 
headlong boy. And old Mrs. Whiteoak thought of her 
two sons as mere boys, and of her dead son, Philip, as a 
poor dead boy. 


THE FAMILY 


27 

She had sat at that same table for nearly seventy years. 
At that table she had held Nicholas on her knee, giving 
him little sips out of her cup. Now he slouched beside 
her, a heavy man of seventy-two. At that table Ernest 
had cried with fright when first he heard the explosion 
of a Christmas cracker. Now he sat on her other side, 
white-haired — which she herself was not. The central 
chamber of her mind was hazy. Its far recesses were 
lit by clear candles of memory. She saw them more 
clearly as little boys than as they now appeared. 

Countless suns had shone yellowly through the shutters 
on Whiteoaks eating heartily as they ate to-day, talking 
loudly, disagreeing, drinking quantities of strong tea. 

The family was arranged in orderly fashion about the 
table with its heavy plate and vegetable dishes, squat 
cruets, and large English cutlery. Wakefield had his own 
little knife and fork, and a battered silver mug which had 
been handed down from brother to brother and had many 
a time been hurled across the room in childish tantrums. 
At one end sat Renny, the head of the house, tall, thin, 
with a small head covered with dense, dark red hair, a 
narrow face, with something of foxlike sharpness about 
it, and quick-tempered red-brown eyes; facing him, Meg, 
the one sister. She was forty, but looked older because 
of her solid bulk, which made it appear that, once seated, 
nothing could budge her. She had a colorless, very 
round face, full blue eyes, and brown hair with a strand 
of gray springing from each temple. Her distinguishing 
feature was her mouth, inherited from Captain White- 
oak. In comparison with the mouth in the portrait, how¬ 
ever, hers seemed to show all its sweetness with none 
of its stubbornness. In her it became a mouth of in¬ 
effable feminine sweetness. When she laid her cheek 
against her hand, her short thick arm resting on the 


28 JALNA 

table, she seemed to be musing on that which filled her 
with bliss. When she raised her head and looked at one 
of her brothers, her eyes were cool, commanding, but 
the curve of her mouth was a caress. She ate little at the 
table, attending always to the wants of others, keeping 
the younger boys in order, cutting up her grandmother’s 
food for her, sipping endless cups of China tea. Be¬ 
tween meals she was always indulging in little lunches, 
carried to her own room on a tray — thick slices of fresh 
bread and butter with gooseberry jam, hot muffins with 
honey, or even French cherries and pound cake. She 
loved all her brothers, but her love and jealousy for 
Renny sometimes shook her solidity into a kind of 
ecstasy. 

The half brothers were ranged in a row along one side 
of the table, facing the window. Wakefield; then Finch 
(whose place was always vacant at dinner time because 
he was a day boy at a school in town); next Piers, he 
too resembling Captain Whiteoak, but with less of the 
sweetness and more of the stubbornness in his boyish 
mouth; last Eden, slender, fair, with the appealing gaze 
of the pretty governess, his mother. 

Across the table the grandmother and the two uncles; 
Ernest with his cat, Sasha, on his shoulder; Nicholas 
with his Yorkshire terrier, Nip, on his knees. Renny’s 
two clumber spaniels lay on either side of his armchair. 

Thus the Whiteoaks at table. 

“What is accepted?” shouted Grandmother. 

“ Poems,” explained Uncle Ernest, gently. “ Eden's 
poems. They’ve been accepted.” 

“Is that what you’re all chattering about?” 

“Yes, Mamma.” 

“Who is she?” 

“Who is who?” 

“The girl who’s accepted them.” 


THE FAMILY 


29 


“ It’s not a girl, Mamma. It’s a publisher.” 

Eden broke in: “For God’s sake, don’t try to explain 
to her!” 

“He shall explain it to me,” retorted Grandmother, 
rapping the table violently with her fork. “Now then, 
Ernest, speak up! What’s this all about?” 

Uncle Ernest swallowed a juicy mouthful of rhubarb 
tart, passed up his cup for more tea, and then said: 
“ You know that Eden has had a number of poems pub¬ 
lished in the university magazine and — and in other 
magazines, too. Now an editor — I mean a publisher — 
is going to bring out a book of them. Do you under¬ 
stand ? ” 

She nodded, the ribbons on her large purple cap shak¬ 
ing. “When’s he going to bring it out? When’s he 
coming? If he’s coming to tea I want my white cap 
with the mauve ribbons on. Is he going to bring it out 
in time for tea?” 

“My God!” groaned Eden, under his breath, “listen 
to her! Why do you try to tell her things ? I knew how 
it would be.” 

His grandmother glared across at him. She had 
heard every word. In spite of her great age, she still 
bore traces of having been a handsome woman. Her 
fierce eyes still were bright under her shaggy reddish eye¬ 
brows. Her nose, defiant of time, looked as though it 
had been moulded by a sculptor who had taken great 
pains to make the sweep of the nostrils and arch of the 
bridge perfect. She was so bent that her eyes stared 
straight on to the victuals that she loved. 

“Don’t you dare to curse at me!” She thrust her 
face toward Eden. “ Nicholas, order him to stop cursing 
at me.” 

“ Stop cursing at her,” growled Nicholas, in his rich, 
deep voice. “ More tart, Meggie, please.” 


3 o JALNA 

Grandmother nodded and grinned, subsiding into her 
tart, which she ate with a spoon, making little guttural 
noises of enjoyment. 

“ Just the same/’ said Renny, carrying on the conver¬ 
sation, “I don’t altogether like it. None of us have 
ever done anything like that.” 

“ You seemed to think it was all right for me to write 
poetry when I only had it published in the varsity maga¬ 
zine. Now when I ’ve got a publisher to bring it out — ” 

Grandmother was aroused. “Bring it out! Will he 
bring it to-day? If he does, I shall wear my white cap 
with mauve — ” 

“ Mamma, have some more tart,” interrupted Nicholas. 
“Just a little more tart.” 

Old Mrs. Whiteoak’s attention was easily diverted by 
an appeal to her palate. She eagerly held out her plate, 
tilting the juice from it to the cloth, where it formed a 
pinkish puddle. 

Eden, after sulkily waiting for her to be helped to 
some tart, went on, a frown indenting his forehead: 
“You simply have no idea, Renny, how difficult it is to 
get a book of poems published. And by a New York 
house, too! I wish you could hear my friends talk 
about it. They’d give a good deal to have accomplished 
what I have at my age.” 

“It would have been more to the point,” returned 
Renny, testily, “to have passed your exams. When I 
think of the money that’s been wasted on your edu¬ 
cation— ” 

“Wasted! Could I have done this if I hadn’t had 
my education?” 

“You’ve always been scribbling verses. The question 
is, can you make a living by it ? ” 

“Give me time! Good Lord, my book isn’t in the 
printer’s hands yet. I can’t tell what it may lead to. 


THE FAMILY 31 

If you — any of you — only appreciated what I’ve really 
done — ” 

“ I do, dear! ” exclaimed his sister. “ I think it’s won¬ 
derfully clever of you, and, as you say, it may lead to — 
to anywhere.” 

“ It may lead to my being obliged to go to New York 
to live, if I’m going to go in for writing,” said Eden. 
“One should be near one’s publishers.” 

Piers, the brother next to him, put in: “Well, it’s 
getting late. One must go back to one’s spreading of 
manure. One’s job may be lowly — one regrets that 
one’s job is not writing poetry.” 

Eden pocketed the insult of his tone, but retorted: 
“You certainly smell of your job.” 

Wakefield tilted back in his chair, leaning toward 
Piers. “ Oh, I smell him! ” he cried. “ I think the smell 
of stable is very appetizing.” 

“ Then I wish,” said Eden, “ that you’d change places 
with me. It takes away my appetite.” 

Wakefield began to scramble down, eager to change, 
but his sister restrained him. “Stay where you are, 
Wake. You know how Piers would torment you if you 
were next him. As for you going to New York, Eden — 
you know how I should feel about that.” Tears filled 
her eyes. 

The family rose from the table and moved in groups 
toward the three doorways. In the first group Grand¬ 
mother dragged her feet heavily, supported by a son on 
either side, Nicholas having his terrier tucked under one 
arm and Ernest his cat perched on his shoulder. Like 
some strange menagerie on parade, they slowly traversed 
the faded medallions of the carpet toward the door that 
was opposite Grandmother’s room. Renny, Piers, and 
Wakefield went through the door that led into a back 
passage, the little boy trying to swarm up the back of 


32 JALNA 

Piers, who was lighting a cigarette. Meg and Eden 
disappeared. through the double doors that led into the 
library. 

Immediately the manservant, John Wragge, known as 
“Rags,” began to clear the table, piling the dishes pre¬ 
cariously on an immense black tray decorated with faded 
red roses, preparatory to carrying it down the long steep 
stairs to the basement kitchen. He and his wife inhabited 
the regions below, she doing the cooking, he carrying, 
besides innumerable trays up the steep stairs, all the coal 
and water, cleaning brasses and windows, and waiting 
on his wife in season and out. Yet she complained that 
he put the burden of the work on her, while he declared 
that he did his own and hers too. The basement was the 
scene of continuous quarrels. Through its subterranean 
ways they pursued each other with bitter recriminations, 
and occasionally through its brick-floored passages a boot 
hurtled or a cabbage flew like a bomb. Jalna was so well 
built that none of these altercations were audible up¬ 
stairs. In complete isolation the two lived their stormy 
life together, usually effecting a reconciliation late at 
night, with a pot of strong tea on the table between them. 

Rags was a drab-faced, voluble little cockney, with a 
pert nose and a mouth that seemed to have been formed 
for a cigarette holder. He was at the head of the back 
stairs as Renny, Piers, and Wakefield came along the 
passage. Wakefield waited till his brothers had passed, 
and then leaped on Rags’s back, scrambling up him as 
though he were a tree, and nearly precipitating them¬ 
selves and the loaded tray down the stairs. 

“Ow!” screamed Rags. “’E’s done it again! ’E’s 
always at it! This time ’e nearly ’ad me down. There 
goes the sugar bison! There goes the grivy boat! Tike 
’im orf me, for pity’s sike, Mr. W’iteoak! ” 

Piers, who was nearest, dragged Wakefield from 


THE FAMILY 


33 

Rags’s back, laughing hilariously as he did so. But Renny 
came back frowning. “He ought to be thrashed,” he 
said, sternly. “It’s just as Rags says — he’s always 
after him.” He peered down the dim stairway at the 
Whiteoak butler gathering up the debris. 

“ I ’ll stand him on his head,” said Piers. 

“No — don’t do that. It’s bad for his heart.” 

But Piers had already done it, and the packet of gum 
had fallen from Wakefield’s pocket. 

“Put him on his feet,” ordered Renny. “Here, 
what’s this ? ” And he picked up the pink packet. 

Wake hung a bewildered, buzzing head. “It’s 
g-gum,” he said faintly. “Mrs. Brawn gave it to me. 
I didn’t like to offend her by saying I wasn’t allowed 
to chew it. I thought it was better not to offend her, 
seeing that I owe her a little bill. But you’ll notice, 
Renny,” — he raised his large eyes pathetically to his 
brother’s face, — “you’ll notice it’s never been opened.” 

“Well, I’ll let you off this time.” Renny threw the 
packet down the stairs after Rags. “ Here, Rags, throw 
this out! ” 

Rags examined it, then his voice came unctuously up 
the stairway: “ Ow, naow, Mr. W’iteoak, I ’ll give it to 
the missus. I see it’s flivored with vaniller. ’Er fivorite 
flivor. It’ll do ’er a world of good to chew this when 
one of ’er spells comes on.” 

Renny turned to Wakefield. “ How much do you owe 
Mrs. Brawn?” 

“ I think it’s eighteen cents, Renny. Unless you think 
I ought to pay for the gum. In that case it would be 
twenty-three.” 

Renny took out a handful of silver and picked out a 
quarter. “Now take this and pay Mrs. Brawn, and 
don’t run into debt again.” 

Grandmother had by this time reached the door of her 


34 JALNA 

room, but, hearing sounds that seemed to contain the 
germ of a row, which she loved only second to her meals, 
she ordered her sons to steer her in the direction of 
the back stairs. The three bore down, clasped closely 
together, presenting a solid, overwhelming front, awe¬ 
inspiring to Wakefield as a Juggernaut. The sun, beam¬ 
ing through a stained-glass window behind them, splashed 
bright patches of color over their bodies. Grandmother’s 
taste ran to gaudy hues. It was she who had installed 
the bright window there to light the dim passage. Now, 
clad in a red velvet dressing gown, clasping her gold¬ 
headed ebony stick, she advanced toward the grandsons, 
long-beaked, brilliant as a parrot. 

“What’s this going on?” she demanded. “What’s 
the child been doing, Piers ? ” 

“Climbing up Rags’s back, Gran. He nearly threw 
him downstairs. Renny promised him a licking next time 
he did it, and now he’s letting him off.” 

Her face turned crimson with excitement. She looked 
more like a parrot than ever. “Let him off, indeed!” 
she cried. “ There’s too much letting off here. That’s 
what’s the matter. I say flog him. Do you hear, Renny ? 
Flog him well. I want to see it done. Get a cane and 
flog him.” 

With a terrified scream, Wakefield threw his arms 
about Renny’s waist and hid his face against him. 
“Don’t whip me, Renny!” he implored. 

“I’ll do it myself,” she cried. “I’ve flogged boys 
before now. I’ve flogged Nicholas. I’ve flogged Ernest. 
I’ll flog this spoiled little rascal. Let me have him!” 
She shuffled toward him, eager with lust of power. 

“Come, come, Mamma,” interposed Ernest, “this 
excitement’s bad for you. Come and have a nice pepper¬ 
mint pate or a glass of sherry.” Gently he began to 
wheel her around. 


THE FAMILY 


35 

“No, no, no!” she screamed, struggling, and Nip and 
Sasha began to bark and mew. 

Renny settled it by picking up the little boy under his 
arm and hurrying along the passage to the side entrance. 
He set him down on the flagged path outside and shut the 
door behind them with a loud bang. Wakefield stood 
staring up at him like a ruffled young robin that has just 
been tossed from its nest by a storm, very much surprised, 
but tremendously interested in the world in which it finds 
itself. 

“Well,” observed Renny, lighting a cigarette, “that’s 
that.” 

Wakefield, watching him, was filled with a passion of 
admiration for Renny — his all-powerful brown hands, 
his red head, his long, sharp-featured face. He loved 
him. He wanted Renny’s love and Renny’s pity more 
than anything else in the world. He must make Renny 
notice him, be kind to him, before he strode off to the 
stable after Piers. 

Closing his eyes, he repeated the potent words that 
never failed to bring tears to his eyes. “ This is terrible! 
Oh, it is terrible!” Something warm swelled within 
him. Something gushed upward, tremulous, through his 
being. He felt slightly dizzy, then tears welled sweetly 
into his eyes. He opened them and saw Renny through 
their iridescent brilliance, staring at him with amused 
concern. 

“What!” he demanded. “Did Gran frighten you?” 

“N-no. A little.” 

“Poor old fellow!” He put his arm around Wake¬ 
field and pressed him against his side. “ But look here. 
You mustn’t cry so easily. That’s twice to-day I’ve 
seen you. You won’t have the life of a dog when you go 
to school if you keep on like this.” 

Wake twisted a button on Renny’s coat. 


36 JALNA 

“May I have my marbles — and — ten cents?” he 
breathed. “ You see, it will take the quarter to pay Mrs. 
Brawn, and I would like just one little drink of lemon 
sour.” 

Renny handed over ten cents and the marbles. 

Wake threw himself on the grass, flat on his back, 
staring up at the friendly blue of the sky. A sense of 
joyous peace possessed him. The afternoon was before 
him. He had nothing to do but enjoy himself. Lovingly 
he rattled the marbles in one pocket and the thirty-five 
cents in the other. Life was rich, full of infinite pos¬ 
sibilities. 

Presently a hot sweet smell assailed his sensitive nos¬ 
trils. It was rising from the window of the basement 
kitchen near him. He rolled over and sniffed again. 
Surely he smelled cheese cakes. Delicious, crusty, lovely 
cheese cakes. He crept briskly on his hands and knees 
to the window and peered down into the kitchen. Mrs. 
Wragge had just taken a pan of them out of the oven. 
Rags was washing the dishes and already chewing the 
gum. Mrs. Wragge’s face was crimson with heat. 
Looking up, she saw Wakefield. 

“ Have a cake ? ” she asked, and handed one up to him. 

“Oh, thanks. And — and — Mrs. Wragge, please 

may I have one for my friend ? ” 

“You ain’t got no friend with yer,” said Rags, vin¬ 
dictively champing the gum. 

Wakefield did not deign to answer him. He only held 
out one thin little brown hand for the other cake. Mrs. 
Wragge laid it on his palm. “Look out it don’t bum 
ye,” she advised. 

Blissfully he lay on the shaggy grass of the lawn, 
munching one cake and gazing quietly at the other re¬ 
cumbent on the grass before him. But when he came to 
it he really had not room for the second cake. If Finch 


THE FAMILY 


37 

had been there, he could have given it to him and Finch 
would have asked no uncomfortable questions. But 
Finch was at school. Was his whole glorious afternoon 
to be spoiled by the responsibility of owning a cake too 
many? 

What did dogs do when they had a bone they didn’t 
need at the moment? They buried it. 

He walked round and round the perennial border, look¬ 
ing for a nice place. At last, near the root of a healthy- 
looking bleeding heart he dug a little hole and placed 
the cake therein. It looked so pretty there he felt like 
calling Meg out to see it. But no — better not. Quickly 
he covered it with the moist warm earth and patted it 
smooth. Perhaps one day he would come and dig it up. 


Ill 

ERNEST AND SASHA 


Ernest Whiteoak was at this time seventy years old. 
He had reached the age when after a hearty dinner a 
man likes repose of body and spirit. Such scenes as the 
one his mother had just staged inclined to upset his 
digestion, and it was with as petulant a look as ever 
shadowed his gentle face that he steered her at last to 
her padded chair by her own fire and ensconced her there. 
He stood looking down at her with a singular mixture 
of disgust and adoration. She was a deplorable old 
vixen, but he loved her more than anyone else in the 
world. 

“Comfortable, Mamma?” he asked. 

“Yes. Bring me a peppermint. A Scotch mint — 
not a humbug.” 

He selected one from a little tin box on the dresser 
and brought it to her in his long pale fingers that seemed 
almost unnaturally smooth. 

“ Put it in my mouth, boy.” She opened it, pushing 
forward her lips till she looked like a hungry old bird. 

He popped in the peppermint, withdrawing his fingers 
quickly as though he were afraid she would bite him. 

She sucked the sweet noisily, staring into the dancing 
firelight from under shaggy red brows. On the high 
back of her chair her brilliantly colored parrot, Boney, 
perched, vindictively pecking at the ribbons on her cap. 
She had brought a parrot with her from India, named 
Boney in derision of Bonaparte. She had had several 
since the first one, but the time was long past when she 
was able to differentiate between them. They were all 


ERNEST AND SASHA 


39 

“Boney," and she frequently would tell a visitor of the 
time she had had fetching this one across the ocean 
seventy-five years ago. He had been almost as much 
trouble as the baby, Augusta. Grandmother and her two 
sons had each a pet, which gave no love to anyone but 
its owner. The three with their pets kept to their own 
apartments like superior boarders, seldom emerging ex¬ 
cept for meals and to pay calls on each other, or to sit 
in the drawing-room at whist in the evening. 

Grandmother's room was thickly carpeted and cur¬ 
tained. It smelled of sandalwood, camphor, and hair 
oil. The windows were opened only once a week, when 
Mrs. Wragge “turned it out" and threw the old lady 
into a temper for the day. 

Her bed was an old painted leather one. The head 
blazed with oriental fruit, clustered about the gorgeous 
plumage of a parrot and the grinning faces of two mon¬ 
keys. On this Boney perched all night, only at daylight 
flapping down to torment his mistress with pecks and 
Hindu curses which she herself had taught him. 

He began to swear now at Sasha, who, standing on 
her hind legs, was trying to reach his tail with a curving 
gray paw. 

“Kutni! Kutni! Kutni!” he rapped out. “Paji! 
Paji! Shaitan ka katla! ” He rent the air with a metallic 
scream. 

“ Pick up your horrid cat, Ernest," ordered his mother. 
“ She’s making Boney swear. Poor Boney! Pretty 
Boney! Peck her eyes out, Boney!" 

Ernest lifted Sasha to his shoulder, where she humped 
furiously, spitting out in her turn curses less coherent 
but equally vindictive. 

“Comfortable now, Mamma?" Ernest repeated, fon¬ 
dling the ribbon on her cap. 

“M-m. When’s this man coming?" 


4 o JALNA 

“What man, Mamma?” 

“The man that’s going to bring out Eden’s book. 
When’s he coming? I want to have on my ecru cap 
with the mauve ribbons.” 

“ I ’ll let you know in time, Mamma.” 

“ M-m. . . . More wood. Put more wood on the fire. 
I like to be warm as well as anyone.” 

Ernest laid a heavy piece of oak log on the fire and 
stood looking down at it till slender flames began to 
caress it; then he turned to look at his mother. She was 
fast asleep, her chin buried in her breast. The Scotch 
mint had slipped out of her mouth and Boney had 
snatched it up and carried it to a corner of the room, 
where he was striking it on the floor to crack it, imag¬ 
ining it was some rare sort of nut. Ernest smiled and 
retreated, gently closing the door after him. 

He slowly mounted the stairs, Sasha swaying on his 
shoulder, and sought his own room. The door of his 
brother’s room stood open, and as he passed he had a 
glimpse of Nicholas sprawling in an armchair, his gouty 
leg supported on a beaded ottoman, his untidy head en¬ 
veloped in cigar smoke. In his own room he was sur¬ 
prised and pleased to find his nephew, Eden. The young 
men did not often call on him; they favored Nicholas, 
who had ribald jokes to tell. Nevertheless, he liked their 
company, and was always ready to lay aside his work — 
the annotating of Shakespeare — for the sake of it. 

Eden was sitting on the edge of a book-littered table, 
swinging his leg. He looked self-conscious and flustered. 

“ I hope I’m not troubling you, Uncle,” he said. “ Just 
say the word if you don’t want me and I ’ll clear out.” 

Ernest sat down in the chair farthest from his desk, 
to show that he had no thought of study. “ I’m glad to 
have you, Eden. You know that. I’m very pleased 
about this success of yours — this book, and all the more 


ERNEST AND SASHA 


4i 


so because you’ve read a good many of the poems to me 
in this very room. I take a great interest in it.” 

“ You ’re the only one that really understands,” an¬ 
swered Eden. “ Understands the difference the publish¬ 
ing of this book will make in my life, I mean. Of course 
Uncle Nick has been very nice about praising my 
poems — ” 

“Oh,” interrupted Ernest, with a hurt feeling, “you 
read them to Nicholas in his room, also, eh?” 

“Just a few. The ones I thought would interest him. 
Some of the love poems. I wanted to see how they 
affected him. After all, he’s a man of the world. He’s 
experienced a good deal in his time.” 

“ And how did they affect him ? ” asked Ernest, polish¬ 
ing the nails of one hand against the palm of the other. 

“They amused him, I think. Like yourself, he has 
difficulty in appreciating the new poetry. Still, he thinks 
I have good stuff in me.” 

“ I wish you could have gone to Oxford.” 

“ I wish I could. And so I might if Renny could have 
been brought to see reason. Of course, he feels now that 
the education he has given me has been wasted, since I 
refuse to go on with the study of law. But I can’t, and 
that’s all there is to it. I’m awfully fond of Renny, but 
I wish he weren’t so frightfully materialistic. The first 
thing he asked about my book was whether I could make 
much money out of it. As though one ever made much 
out of a first book.” 

“And poetry at that,” amended Ernest. 

“He doesn’t seem to realize that I’m the first one of 
the family who has done anything to make our name 
known to the world — ” The armor of his egotism was 
pierced by a hurt glance from Ernest and he hastened 
to add, “Of course, Uncle, there’s your work on Shake¬ 
speare. That will get a lot of attention when it comes 


42 JALNA 

out. But Renny won’t see anything in either achieve¬ 
ment to be proud of. I think he’s rather ashamed 
for us. He thinks a Whiteoak should be a gentleman 
farmer or a soldier. His life’s been rather cramped, 
after all.” 

“ He was through the War,” commented Ernest. 
“ That was a great experience.” 

“And what impressions did he bring back from it?” 
demanded Eden. “Almost the first questions he asked 
when he returned were about the price of hay and steers, 
and he spent most of his first afternoon leaning over a 
sty, watching a litter of squirming young pigs.” 

“I sympathize with you very greatly, my dear boy. 
And so does Meggie. She thinks you’re a genius.” 

“Good old Meg. I wish she could convince the rest 
of the clan of that. Piers is a young beast.” 

“You mustn’t mind Piers. He gibes at everything 
connected with learning. After all, he’s very young. 
Now tell me, Eden, what shall you do? Shall you take 
up literature as a profession? ” Eager to be sympathetic, 
he peered into the boy’s face. He wanted very much to 
hold him, to keep his confidence. 

“ Oh, I ’ll look about me. I ’ll go on writing. I may 
join an expedition into the North this summer. I ’ve an 
idea for a cycle of poems about the Northland. Not wild, 
rugged stuff, but something delicate, austere. One thing 
is certain — I’m not going to mix up law and poetry. 
It wouldn’t do for me at all. Let’s see what sort of 
reviews I get, Uncle Ernie.” 

They discussed the hazards of literature as a means of 
livelihood. Ernest spoke as a man of experience, though 
in all his seventy years he had never earned a dollar by 
his pen. Where would he be now, Eden wondered, if it 
were not for the shelter of Renny’s roof. He supposed 
Gran would have had to come across with enough to 


ERNEST AND SASHA 


43 

support him, though to get money from her was to draw 
blood from a stone. 

When Eden had gone, Ernest remained motionless in 
his chair by the window, looking out over the green 
meadows, and thinking also of his mother's fortune. It 
was the cause of much disturbing thought to him. Not 
that it was what one could call a great fortune, but a com¬ 
fortable sum it certainly was. And there it was lying, 
accumulating for no one knew whom. In moments of 
the closest intimacy and affection with her, she never 
could be ever so gently led to disclose in whose favor 
her will was made. She knew that much of her power 
lay in keeping that tantalizing secret. He felt sure, by 
the mirthful gleam he had discovered in her eyes when the 
subject of money or wills was approached, that in secret 
she hugged the joy of baffling them all. 

Ernest loved his family. He would feel no deep bitter¬ 
ness should any one of them inherit the money. He 
greatly longed, nevertheless, to be the next heir himself, 
to be in his turn the holder of power at Jalna, to experi¬ 
ence the thrill of independence. And if he had it, he 
would do such nice things for them all, from brother 
Nicholas down to little Wake! By means of that power 
he would guide their lives into the channels that would 
be best for them. Whereas, if Nicholas inherited it,— 
it had been divulged by Mrs. Whiteoak that the money 
was to be left solidly to one person, — well, Ernest could 
not quite think dispassionately of Nicholas as his mother’s 
heir. He might do something reckless. Nicholas fre¬ 
quently made very reckless jokes about what he would do 
when he got it, — he seemed to take it for granted that, 
as the eldest, he would get it, — jokes which Ernest was 
far too generous to repeat to his mother, but it made him 
positively tremble to think where the family might end 
if Nicholas had a fling with it. In himself he was aware 


44 JALNA 

of well-knit faculties, cool judgment, a capacity for 
power. Nicholas was headstrong, arbitrary, ill balanced. 

As for Renny, he was a good fellow, but he was letting 
the place run down. It had deteriorated while he was 
away at the War, and his return had not stayed the down¬ 
ward progression. The younger nephews could scarcely 
be looked on as rivals. Still, one never could be cer¬ 
tain where the whim of an aged woman was in question. 

Ernest sighed and looked toward the bed. He thought 
he should take a little nap after such a substantial dinner. 
With a last look at the pretty green meadows, he drew 
down the blind and laid his slender body along the cover¬ 
let. Sasha leaped up after him, snuggling her head close 
to his on the pillow. They gazed into each other’s eyes, 
his blue and drowsy, hers vivid green in the shadowed 
room, speculative, mocking. 

She stretched out a round paw and laid it on his cheek, 
then, lest he should rest too secure in her love, she put 
out her claws just a little way and let him feel their 
sharpness. 

“ Sasha, dear, you ’re hurting me,” he breathed. 

She withdrew her claws, patted him, and uttered short 
throaty purrs. 

“ Pretty puss,” sighed Ernest, closing his eyes. “ Gentle 
puss! ” 

She was sleepy, too, so they slept. 


* 


IV 

NICHOLAS AND NIP 

As nephew Eden had sought out uncle Ernest that he 
might discuss his future with him, so that same afternoon 
nephew Renny sought out uncle Nicholas that they too 
might discuss Eden’s prospects. 

Both rooms, the scenes of these conversations, would 
appear to an outside observer overfurnished. The two 
elderly men had collected there all the things which they 
particularly fancied or to which they thought they had a 
claim, but while Ernest’s taste ran to pale water colors, 
china figures, and chintz-covered chairs, Nicholas had the 
walls of his room almost concealed by hunting prints and 
pictures of pretty women. His furniture was leather- 
covered. An old square piano, the top of which was lit¬ 
tered with pipes, several decanters and a mixer, medicine 
bottles, — he was always dosing himself for gout, — and 
music, stood by the window. 

Nip, the Yorkshire terrier, had a bone on the hearth¬ 
rug when Renny entered. Hearing the step, he darted 
forward, nipped Renny on the ankle, and darted back to 
his bone, snarling as he gnawed. Nicholas, his bad leg 
stretched on the ottoman, looked up from his book with 
a lazy smile. 

“Hullo, Renny! Come for a chat? Can you find a 
chair ? Throw those slippers on to the floor. Place always 
in a mess — yet if I let Rags in here to tidy up he hides 
everything I use, and what with my knee — well, it puts 
me in the devil of a temper for a week.” 

“ I know,” agreed Renny. He dropped the slippers 
to the floor and himself into the comfort of the chair. 


46 JALNA 

“ Have you got a good book, Uncle Nick? I never seem 
to have any time for reading.” 

“ I wish I had n’t so much, but when a man’s tied to 
his chair, as I am a great deal of the time, he must do 
something. This is one Meggie got the last time she was 
in town. An English authoress. The new books puzzle 
me, Renny. My God! if everything in this one is true, 
it’s amazing what nice women will do and think these 
days. The thoughts of this heroine—my goodness, 
they’re appalling. Have a cigar?” 

Renny helped himself from a box on the piano. Nip, 
thinking Renny had designs on his bone, darted forth 
once more, bit the intruder’s ankle, and darted back 
growling, fancying himself a terrifying beast. 

“Little brute!” said Renny. “I really felt his teeth 
that time. Does he think I’m after his bone?” 

Nicholas said: “Catch a spider! Catch a spider, 
Nip!” Nip flew to his master, tossing his long-haired 
body round and round him, and yapping loudly. 

A loud thumping sounded through the thick walls. 
Nicholas smiled maliciously. “It always upsets Ernie 
to hear Nip raise his voice. Yet I’m expected to endure 
the yowls of that cat of his at any hour of the night.” 
He clapped his palms together at the little dog. “ Catch 
a spider, Nip! Catch a spider!” Hysterically yelping, 
Nip sped around the room, looking in corners and under 
chairs for an insect. The thumping on the wall became 
frantic. 

Renny picked up the terrier and smothered his barks 
under his arm. “Poor Uncle Ernest! You’ll have him 
unnerved for the rest of the day. Shut up, Nip, you little 
scoundrel.” 

Nicholas’s long face, the deep downward lines of which 
gave an air of sagacity to his most trivial remarks, was 
lit by a sardonic smile. “Does him good to be stirred 


NICHOLAS AND NIP 


47 

up,” he remarked. “He spends too much time at his 
desk. Came to me the other day jubilant. He had got 
what he believed to be two hundred and fifty mistakes 
in the text of Shakespeare’s plays. Fancy trying to im¬ 
prove Shakespeare’s text at this time. I tell him he has 
not an adequate knowledge of the handwriting of the day, 
but he thinks he has. Poor Ernie, he always was a little 
nutty.” 

Renny puffed soberly at his cigar. “I hope to God 
Eden is not going to take after him. Wasting his time 
over poetry. I feel a bit upset about this book of his. 
It’s gone to his head. I believe the young fool thinks 
he can make a living from poetry. You don’t think so, 
do you, Uncle Nick?” He regarded Nicholas almost 
pathetically. 

“ I don’t believe it’s ever been done. I like his poetry, 
though. It’s very nice poetry.” 

“Well, he must understand he’s got to work. I’m 
not going to waste any more money on him. He’s quite 
made up his mind he won’t go on with his profes¬ 
sion. After all I’ve spent on him! I only wish I had it 
back.” 

Nicholas tugged at his drooping moustache. “Oh, 
he had to have a university education.” 

“No, he didn’t. Piers hasn’t. He didn’t want it. 
Wouldn’t have it. Eden could have stopped at home. 
We could find plenty of work for him on one of the 
farms.” 

“ Eden farming ? My dear Renny! Don’t worry. Let 
him go on with his poetry and wait and see what hap¬ 
pens.” 

“It’s such a damned silly life for a man. All very 
well for the classic poets — ” 

“They were young fellows once. Disapproved of by 
their families, too.” 


48 JALNA 

“ Is his poetry good enough ?” 

“ Well, it’s good enough to take the fancy of this pub¬ 
lisher. For my part, I think it’s very adroit. A sort of 
delicate perfection — a very wistful beauty that’s quite 
remarkable.” 

Renny stared at his uncle, suspiciously. Was he mak¬ 
ing fun of Eden? Or was he just pulling the wool over 
his own eyes to protect Eden? “Adroit, delicate, wist¬ 
ful”— the adjectives made him sick. “One thing’s 
damned certain,” he growled; “he’ll not get any more 
money out of me.” 

Nicholas heaved himself about in his chair, achieving 
a more comfortable position. “How are things going? 
Pretty close to the wind ? ” 

“Couldn’t be closer,” Renny assented. 

Nicholas chuckled. “And yet you would like to keep 
all the boys at Jalna instead of sending them out into the 
world to shift for themselves. Renny, you have the in¬ 
stincts of the patriarch. To be the head of a swarming 
tribe. To mete out justice and rewards, and grow a long 
red beard.” 

Renny, somewhat nettled, felt like saying that both 
Nicholas and his brother Ernest had taken advantage of 
this instinct in him, but he satisfied himself by pulling the 
little dog’s ears. Nip growled. 

“Catch a spider, Nip,” commanded his master, clap¬ 
ping his hands at him. 

Once again Nip hurled himself into a frenzy of pur¬ 
suit after an imagined insect. The thumping on the wall 
broke out anew. Renny got up to go. He felt that his 
troubles were not being taken seriously. Nicholas, look¬ 
ing up from under his shaggy brows, saw the shadow on 
Renny’s face. He said, with sudden warmth: “You’re 
an uncommonly good brother, Renny, and nephew. Have 
a drink?” 


NICHOLAS AND NIP 


49 

Renny said he would, and Nicholas insisted on getting 
up to mix it for him. “ Should n’t take one myself with 
this damn knee — ” but he did, hobbling about his liquor 
cabinet in sudden activity. 

“Well, Eden can do as he likes this summer,” said 
Renny, cheered by his glass, “ but by fall he’s got to settle 
down, either in business or here at Jalna.” 

“But what would the boy do at Jalna, Renny?” 

“Help Piers. Why not? If he would turn in and 
help, we could take over the land that is rented to old 
Hare and make twice as much out of it. It’s a good life. 
He could write poetry in his spare time if he wanted to. 
I’d not say a word against it, so long as I was n’t asked 
to read it.” 

“ The ploughman poet. It sounds artless enough. But 
I’m, afraid he has very different ideas for his future. 
Poor young whelp. Heavens! How like his mother 
he is!” 

“Well,” mumbled Renny. “He’ll not get around me. 
I’ve wasted enough on him. To think of him refusing to 
try his finals! I’ve never heard of such a thing. Now 
he talks’of going down to New York to see his pub¬ 
lisher.” 

“ I expect this particular germ has been working in him 
secretly for a long time. Perhaps the boy’s a genius, 
\Renny.” 

“ Lord! I hope not.” 

Nicholas made the subterranean noises that were his 
laughter. “You’re a perfect Court, Renny. No wonder 
Mamma is partial to you.” 

“Is she? I’d never noticed it. I thought Eden was 
her pet. He has a way with women of all ages. Well, 
I’m off. Hobbs, up Mistwell way, is having a sale of 
Holsteins. I may buy a cow or two.” 

“I should go with you if it were horses, in spite of 


50 JALNA 

my knee, but I can’t get worked up over cows. Never 
liked milk.” 

Renny had got to the door when Nicholas asked sud¬ 
denly: “How about Piers? Have you spoken to him 
of the girl yet?” 

“ Yes. I’ve told him he must cut out these meetings 
with her. He never dreamed they’d been seen. He was 
staggered.” 

“ He seemed all right at dinner time.” 

“ Oh, we had our little talk two days ago. He’s not 
a bad youngster. He took it very well. There aren’t 
many girls about here — attractive ones — and there’s 
no denying Pheasant is pretty.” 

Nicholas’s brow darkened. “But think what she is. 
We don’t want that breed in the family. Meg would 
never stand it.” 

“The girl is all right,” said Renny, in his contradic¬ 
tory way. “ She did n’t choose the manner of her coming 
into the world. The boys have always played about with 
her.” 

“ Piers will play about with her once too often.” 

“That’s all right,” returned Renny, testily. “He 
knows I’ll stand no nonsense.” He went out, shutting 
the door noisily, as he always did. 

Nip was still busy with his bone. Regarding him, 
Nicholas feared that he would be in for an attack of 
indigestion if he got any more of the gristle off it. He 
dragged the treasure from him, and with difficulty 
straightened himself. Once bent over, it was no joke 
to rise. What a responsibility a little pet dog was! “No, 
no, no more gristle. You ’ll get a tummy-ache.” 

Nip protested, dancing on his hind legs. Nicholas laid 
the bone on the piano and wiped his fingers on the tail 
of his coat. Then the bottle of Scotch and the siphon 
caught his eye. He took up his glass. “ Good Lord, I 


NICHOLAS AND NIP 


5i 

should n’t be doing this,” he groaned, but he mixed him¬ 
self another drink. “ Positively the last to-day,” he 
murmured, as he hobbled toward his chair, glass in hand. 

A deep note was struck on the piano. Nip had leaped 
to the stool and from there to the keys. Now he had 
stretched his head to recapture the bone. Nicholas sank 
with a grunt of mingled pain and amusement into his 
chair. “I suppose we may as well kill ourselves,” he 
commented, ruefully, 

“ You in your small comer, 

And I in mine.” 

Nip growled, gnawing his bone on the top of the piano. 

Nicholas sipped his whiskey and soda dreamily. The 
house was beautifully quiet now. He would doze a little, 
just in his chair, when he had finished his glass and Nip 
his bone. The rhythmic crunching of Nip’s teeth as he 
excavated for marrow was soothing. A smile flitted over 
Nicholas’s face as he remembered how the little fellow’s 
barking had upset Ernest. Ernest did get upset easily, 
poor old boy! Well, he was probably resting quietly now 
beside his beloved Sasha. Cats. Selfish things. Only 
loved you for what they could get out of you. Now Nip 
— there was devotion. 

He stretched out his hand and looked at it critically. 
Yes, that heavy ring with the square green stone in its 
antique setting became it. He was glad he had inherited 
his mother’s hands — Court hands. Renny had them, 
too, but badly cared for. No doubt about it, character, 
as well as breeding, showed in hands. A vision of the 
hands of his wife, Millicent, came before him, — clawlike 
hands with incredibly thin, very white fingers, and large 
curving nails. . . . She was still living; he knew that. 
Good God, she would be seventy! He tried to picture 
her at seventy, then shook his head impatiently — no, he 


52 JALNA 

did not want to picture her at either seventy or seventeen. 
He wanted to forget her. When Mamma should die, as she 
must soon, poor old dear, and he should inherit the money, 
he would go to England for a visit. He’d like to see old 
England once again before he — well, even he would die 
some day, though he expected to live to be at least ninety- 
nine like Mamma. He was a Court, and they were famous 
for their longevity and — what was the other? Oh, yes, 
their tempers. Well, thank goodness, he hadn’t inherited 
the Court temper. It would die with Mamma, though 
Renny when he was roused was a fierce fellow. 

Nip was whining to be lifted from the piano top. He 
was tired of his bone, and wanted his afternoon nap. 
Little devil, to make him get out of his chair again just 
when he was so comfortable! 

With a great grunt he heaved himself on to his feet 
and limped to. the piano. He took up the little dog, now 
entirely gentle and confiding, and carried him back under 
his arm. His knee gave him a sharp twinge as he lowered 
his weight into the chair once more, but his grimace of 
pain changed to a smile at the shaggy little face that was 
turned up to his. He had a sudden impulse to say, “ Catch 
a spider, Nip!” and start a fresh skirmish. He even 
framed the words with his lips, and a sudden tenseness 
in Nip’s body, a gleam in his eye, showed that he was 
ready; but he must not upset old Ernie again, and he was 
very drowsy — that second drink had been soothing. 
“No, no, Nip,” he murmured, “go to sleep. No more 
racketing, old boy.” He stroked the little dog’s back with 
a large, indolent hand. 

Nip lay along his body, as he half reclined, gazing into 
his eyes. Nicholas blew into Nip’s face. Nip thumped 
his tail on Nicholas’s stomach. 

They slept. 


V 

PIERS AND HIS LOVE 


It was almost dark when Piers crossed the lawn, passed 
through a low wicket gate in the hedge, and pressed 
eagerly along a winding path that led across a paddock 
where three horses were still cropping the new grass. 
The path wandered then down into the ravine; became, 
for three strides, a little rustic bridge; became a path 
again, still narrower, that wound up the opposite steep, 
curved through a noble wood; and at last, by a stile, 
was wedded to another path that had been shaped for no 
other purpose but to meet it on the boundary between 
Jalna and the land belonging to the Vaughans. 

Down in the ravine it was almost night, so darkly the 
stream glimmered amid the thick undergrowth and so 
close above him hung the sky, not yet pricked by a star. 
** Climbing up the steep beyond, it was darker still, except 
for the luminous shine of the silver birches that seemed 
to be lighted by some secret beam within. A whippoor¬ 
will darted among the trees, catching insects, uttering, 
each time it struck, a little throaty cluck, and showing a 
gleam of white on its wings. Then suddenly, right over 
his head, another whippoorwill burst into its loud lilting 
song. 

When he reached the open wood above, Piers could see 
that there was still a deep red glow in the west, and the 
young leaves of the oaks had taken a burnished look. 
The trees were lively with the twittering of birds seeking 
their nests, their lovemaking over for the day — his just 
to begin. 

His head was hot and he took off his cap to let the 


54 JALNA 

cool air fan it. He wished that his love for Pheasant 
were a calmer love. He would have liked to stroll out 
with her in the evenings, just pleasantly elated, taking it 
as a natural thing, as natural as the life of these birds, to 
love a girl and be loved by her. But it had come upon 
him suddenly, after knowing her all his life, like a storm 
that shook and possessed him. As he hurried on through 
the soft night air, each step drawing him nearer to the 
stile where Pheasant was to meet him, he tormented him¬ 
self by picturing his disappointment if she were not there. 
He saw, in his fancy, the stile, bare as a waiting gallows, 
mocking the sweet urge that pressed him. He saw him¬ 
self waiting till dark night and then stumbling back to 
Jalna filled with despair because he had not held her in 
his arms. What was it that had overtaken them both 
that day, when, meeting down in the ravine, she had been 
startled by a water snake and had caught his sleeve and 
had pointed down into the stream where it had disap¬ 
peared ? Bending over the water, they had suddenly seen 
their two faces reflected in a still pool, looking up at them 
not at all like the faces of Piers and Pheasant who had 
known each other all their days. The faces reflected had 
had strange, timid eyes and parted lips. They had turned 
to look at each other. Their own lips had met. 

Remembering that kiss, he began to run across the 
open field toward the stile. 

She was sitting on it, waiting for him, her drooping 
figure silhouetted against the blur of red in the west. 
He slackened his pace as soon as he saw her, and greeted 
her laconically as he came up. 

“ Hullo, Pheasant! ” 

“ Hullo, Piers! I ’ve been waiting quite a while.” 

“I couldn't get away. I had to stop and admire a 
beastly cow Renny bought at Hobbs’s sale to-day.” 

He climbed to the stile and sat down beside her. “ It’s 


PIERS AND HIS LOVE 


55 

the first warm evening, isn’t it?” he observed, not look¬ 
ing at her. “ I got as hot as blazes coming over. I 
wasn’t letting the grass grow under my feet, I can tell 
you.” He took her hand and drew it against his side. 
“ Feel that.” 

“Your heart is beating rather hard,” she said, in a 
low voice. “Is it because you hurried or because — ” 
She leaned against his shoulder and looked into his 
face. 

It was what Piers had been waiting for, this moment 
when she should lean toward him. Not without a sign 
from her would he let the fountain of his love leap forth. 
Now he put his arms about her and pressed her to him. 
He found her lips and held them with his own. The 
warm fragrance of her body made him dizzy. He was 
no longer strong and practical. He wished in that mo¬ 
ment that they two might die thus happily clasped in each 
other’s arms in the tranquil spring night. 

“ I can’t go on like this,” he murmured. “ We simply 
must get married.” 

“ Remember what Renny has said. Are you going to 
defy him? He’d be in a rage if he knew we were 
together here now.” 

“ Renny be damned! He’s got to be taught a lesson. 
It’s time he was taught that he can’t lord it over every¬ 
one. He’s spoiled, that’s the trouble with him. I call 
him the Rajah of Jalna.” 

“After all, you have the right to say who you will 
marry, even if the girl is beneath you, haven’t you?” 

He felt a sob beneath her breast; her sudden tears wet 
his cheek. 

“Oh, Pheasant, you little fool,” he exclaimed. “You 
beneath me? What rot!” 

“Well, Renny thinks so. All your family think so. 
Your family despise me.” 


56 JALNA 

“My family may go to the devil. Why, after all, 
you’re a Vaughan. Everybody knows that. You’re 
called by the name.” 

“Even Maurice looks down on me. He’s never let 
me call him Father.” 

“He deserves to be shot. If I had ever done what he 
did, I’d stand by the child. I’d brave the whole thing 
out, by God! ” 

“Well, he has — in a way. He’s kept me. Given 
me his name.” 

“ His parents did that. He’s never liked you or been 
really kind to you.” 

“ He thinks I’ve spoiled his life.” 

“ With Meggie, you mean. Picture Meg and Maurice 
married! ” He laughed and kissed her temple, and, feel¬ 
ing her silky brow touch his cheek, he kissed that, too. 

She said: “ I can picture that more easily than I can 
our own marriage. I feel as though we should go on and 
on, meeting and parting like this forever. In a way I 
think I’d like it better, too.” 

“ Better than being married to me? Look here, Pheas¬ 
ant, you’re just trying to hurt me.” 

“No, really. It’s so beautiful, meeting like this. All 
day I’m in a kind of dream, waiting for it; then after 
it comes the night, and you’re in the very heart of me 
all night—” 

“What if I were beside you?” 

“It couldn’t be so lovely. It couldn’t. Then in the 
morning, the moment I waken, I am counting the hours 
till we meet again. Maurice might not exist. I scarcely 
see or hear him.” 

“ Dreams don’t satisfy me, Pheasant. This way of liv¬ 
ing is torture to me. Every day as the spring goes on 
it’s a greater torture. I want you — not dreams of you.” 

“ Don’t you love our meeting like this ? ” 


PIERS AND HIS LOVE 


57 

“Don’t be silly! You know what I mean.” He 
moved away from her on the stile and lighted a ciga¬ 
rette. “Now,” he went on, in a hard, businesslike tone, 
“ let us take it for granted that we ’re going to be married. 
We are, aren’t we? Are we going to be married, eh?” 

“ Yes . . . You might offer me a cigarette.” 

He gave her one and lighted it for her. 

“Very well. Can you tell me any reason for hanging 
back? I’m twenty, you’re seventeen. Marriageable 
ages, eh?” 

“Too young, they say.” 

“ Rot. They would like us to wait till we ’re too de¬ 
crepit to creep to this stile. I’m valuable to Renny. 
He’s paying me decent wages. I know Renny. He’s 
good-natured at bottom, for all his temper. He’d 
never dream of putting me out. There’s lots of room at 
Jalna. One more would never be noticed.” 

“Meg doesn’t like me. I’m rather afraid of her.” 

“Afraid of Meggie! Oh, you little coward! She’s 
gentle as a lamb. And Gran always liked you. I ’ll tell 
you what, Pheasant, we ’ll stand in with Gran. She has 
a lot of influence with the family. If we make ourselves 
pleasant to her, there’s no knowing what she may do for 
us. She’s often said that I am more like my grandfather 
than any of the others, and she thinks he was the finest 
man that ever lived.” 

“What about Renny? She’s always talking about his 
being a perfect Court. Anyhow, I expect her will was 
made before we were born.” 

“Yes, but she’s always changing it or pretending that 
she does. Only last week she had her lawyer out for 
hours, and the whole family was upset. Wake peeked in 
at the keyhole and he said all she did was feed the old 
fellow peppermints. Still, you can never tell.” He shook 
his head sagaciously and then heaved a gusty sigh. “ One 


58 JALNA 

thing is absolutely certain: I can’t go on like this. I’ve 
either got to get married or go away. It’s affecting my 
nerves. I scarcely knew what I was eating at dinner 
to-day, and such a hullabaloo there was over this book of 
Eden’s. Good Lord! Poetry! Think of it! And at 
tea time Finch had come home with a bad report from 
one of his masters and there was another row. It raged 
for an hour. ” 

But Pheasant had heard nothing but the calculated 
cruelty of the words “ go away.” She turned toward him 
a frightened, wide-eyed face. 

“Go away! How can you say such a thing? You 
know I’d die in this place without you.” 

“ How pale you’ve got,” he observed, peering into her 
face. “ Why are you turning pale ? Surely it would n’t 
matter to you if I went away. You could go right on 
dreaming about me, you know.” 

Pheasant burst into tears and began to scramble down 
from the stile. “If you think I ’ll stop here to be tor¬ 
tured ! ” she cried, and began to run from him. 

“Yet you expect me to stay and be tortured!” he 
shouted. 

She ran into the dusk across the wet meadow, and he 
sat obstinately staring after her, wondering if her will 
would hold out till she reached the other side. Already 
her steps seemed to be slackening. Still her figure became 
less clear. What if she should run on and on till she 
reached home, leaving him alone on the stile with all his 
love turbulent within him? The mere thought of that 
was enough to make him jump down and begin to run 
after her, but even as he did so he saw her coming slowly 
back, and he clambered again to his seat just in time 
to save his dignity. He was thankful for that. 

She stopped within ten paces of him. 

“Very well,” she said, in a husky voice, “I’ll do it.” 


PIERS AND HIS LOVE 


59 

He was acutely aware of her nearness in every sensi¬ 
tive nerve, but he puffed stolidly at his cigarette a mo¬ 
ment before he asked gruffly: “ When?” 

“ Whenever you say.” Her head drooped and she gave 
a childish sob. 

“Come here, you little baggage,” he ordered peremp¬ 
torily. But when he had her on the stile again a most 
delicious tenderness took possession of him and withal a 
thrilling sense of power. He uttered endearments and 
commands with his face against her hair. 

All the way home he was full of lightness and strength, 
though he had worked hard that day. Halfway down the 
steep into the ravine a branch of an oak projected across 
the path above him. He leaped up and caught it with his 
hands and so hung aloof from the earth that seemed too 
prosaic for his light feet. He swung himself gently a 
moment, looking up at the stars that winked at him 
through the young leaves. A rabbit ran along the path 
beneath, quite unaware of him. His mind was no longer 
disturbed by anxiety, but free and exultant. He felt 
himself one with the wild things of the wood. It was 
spring, and he had chosen his mate. 

When he crossed the lawn he saw that the drawing¬ 
room was lighted. Playing cards as usual, he supposed. 
He went to one of the French windows and looked in. 
By the fire he could see a table drawn up, at which sat 
his grandmother and his uncle Ernest, playing at 
draughts. She was wrapped in a bright green-and-red 
plaid shawl, and wearing a much beribboned cap. Evi¬ 
dently she was beating him, for her teeth were showing 
in a broad grin and a burst of loud laughter made the 
bridge players at the other table turn in their chairs with 
looks of annoyance. The long aquiline face of Uncle 
Ernest drooped wistfully above the board. On the 
blackened walnut mantelpiece Sasha lay curled beside a 


60 JALNA 

china shepherdess, her gaze fixed on her master with a 
kind of ecstatic contempt. 

At the bridge table sat Renny, Meg, Nicholas, and Mr. 
Fennel, the rector. The faces of all were illumined by 
firelight, their expressions intensified: Nicholas, sardonic, 
watchful; Renny, frowning, puzzled; Meg, sweet, com¬ 
placent; Mr. Fennel, pulling his beard and glowering. 
Poor creatures all, thought Piers, as he let himself in at 
the side door and softly ascended the stair, playing their 
little games, their paltry pastimes, whilst he played the 
great game of life. 

A light showed underneath Eden’s door. More poetry, 
more paltry pastime! Had Eden ever loved? If he had, 
he’d kept it well to himself. Probably he only loved 
his Muse. His Muse— ha, ha! He heard Eden groan. 
So it hurt, did it, loving the pretty Muse? Poetry had 
its pain, then. He gave a passing thump to the door. 

“Want any help in there?” 

“You go to hell,” rejoined the young poet, “unless 
you happen to have a rag about you. I’ve upset the ink.” 

Piers poked his head in at the door. “ My shirt is n’t 
much better than a rag,” he said. “ I can let you have 
that.” 

Eden was mopping the stained baize top of the desk 
with blotting paper. On a sheet of a writing pad was 
neatly written what looked like the beginning of a poem. 

“ I suppose you get fun out of it,” remarked Piers. 

“More than you get from chasing a girl about the 
wood at night.” 

“Look here, you’d better be careful!” Piers raised 
his voice threateningly, but Eden smiled and sat down 
at his desk once more. 

It was uncanny, Piers thought, as he went on to his 
room. How ever had Eden guessed? Was it because 
he was a poet ? He had always felt, though he had given 


PIERS AND HIS LOVE 


61 


the matter but little thought, that a poet would be an 
uncommonly unpleasant person to have in the house, 
and now, by God, they had a full-fledged one at Jalna. 
He didn’t like it at all. The first bloom of his happy 
mood was gone as he opened the door into his bedroom. 

He shared it with sixteen-year-old Finch. Finch was 
now humped over his Euclid, an expiession of extreme 
melancholy lengthening his already long sallow face. He 
had been the centre of a whirlpool of discussion and 
criticism all tea time, and the effect was to make his 
brain, never quite under his control, completely unman¬ 
ageable. He had gone over the same problem six or seven 
times and now it meant nothing to him, no more than a 
senseless nursery rhyme. He had stolen one of Piers’s 
cigarettes to see if it would help him out. He had made 
the most of it, inhaling slowly, savoring each puff, re¬ 
taining the stub between his bony fingers till they and 
even his lips were burned, but it had done no good. 
When he heard Piers at the door he had dropped the 
stub, a mere crumb, to the floor and set his foot on it. 

Now he glanced sullenly at Piers out of the corners of 
his long light eyes. 

Piers sniffed. “H-m. Smoking, eh? One of my fags, 
too, I bet. I ’ll just thank you to leave them alone, young 
man. Do you think I can supply you with smokes? 
Besides, you ’re not allowed.” 

Finch returned to his Euclid with increased melancholy. 
If he could not master it when he was alone, certainly 
he should never learn it with Piers in the room. That 
robust, domineering presence would crush the last spark 
of intelligence from his brain. He had always been 
afraid of Piers. All his life he had been kept in a state of 
subjection by him. He resented it, but he saw no way out 
of it. Piers was strong, handsome, a favorite. He was 
none of these things. And yet he loved all his family, 


62 JALNA 

in a secret, sullen way, even Piers who was so rough 
with him. Now, if Piers had been some brothers one 
might ask him to give one a helping hand with the 
Euclid; Piers had been good at the rotten stuff. But it 
would never do to ask Piers for help. He was too im¬ 
patient, too intolerant of a fellow who got mixed up for 
nothing. 

“I’d thank you/’ continued Piers, “to let my fags, 
likewise my handerchiefs, socks, and ties alone. If you 
want to pinch other people’s property, pinch Eden’s. 
He’s a poet and probably doesn’t know what he has.” 
He grinned at his reflection in the glass as he took off 
his collar and tie. 

Finch made no answer. Desperately he sought to 
clamp his attention to the problem before him. Angles 
and triangles tangled themselves into strange patterns. 
He drew a grotesque face on the margin of the book. 
Then horribly the face he had created began to leer at 
him. With a shaking hand he tried to rub it out, but he 
could not. It was not his to erase. It possessed the page. 
It possessed the book. It was Euclid personified, sneering 
at him! 

Piers had divested himself of all his clothes and had 
thrown open the window. A chill night wind rushed 
in. Finch shivered as it embraced him. He wondered 
how Piers stood it on his bare skin. It fluttered the 
pages of a French exercise all about the room. There 
was no use in trying; he could not do the problem. 

Piers, in his pyjamas now, jumped into bed. He lay 
staring at Finch with bright blue eyes, whistling softly. 
Finch began to gather up his books. 

“All finished?” asked Piers, politely. “You got 
through in a hurry, did n’t you ? ” 

“I’m not through,” bawled Finch. “Do you imagine 
I can work with a cold blast like that on my back and 


PIERS AND HIS LOVE 63 

you staring at me in front? It just means I’ll have to 
get up early and finish before breakfast.” 

Piers became sarcastic. “ You ’re very temperamental 
aren’t you? You’ll be writing poetry next. I dare say 
you’ve tried it already. Do you know, I think it would 
be a good thing for you to go down to New York in the 
Easter holidays and see if you can find a publisher.” 

“Shut up,” growled Finch, “and let me alone.” 

Piers was very happy. He was too happy for sleep. 
It would ease his high spirits to bait young Finch. He 
lay watching him speculatively while he undressed his 
long, lanky body. Finch might develop into a distin¬ 
guished-looking man. There was something arresting 
even now in his face; but he had a hungry, haunted look, 
and he was uncomfortably aware of his long wrists and 
legs. He always sat in some ungainly posture and, when 
spoken to suddenly, would glare up, half defensively, 
half timidly, as though expecting a blow. Truth to tell, 
he had had a good many, some quite undeserved. 

Piers regarded his thin frame with contemptuous 
amusement. He offered pungent criticisms of Finch’s 
prominent shoulder blades, ribs, and various other por¬ 
tions of his anatomy. At last the boy, trembling with 
anger and humiliation, got into his nightshirt, turned out 
the light, and scrambled over Piers to his place next the 
wall. He curled himself up with a sigh of relief. It 
had been a nervous business scrambling over Piers. He 
had half expected to be grabbed by the ankle and put to 
some new torture. But he had gained his corner in 
safety. The day with its miseries was over. He stretched 
out his long limbs. 

They lay still, side by side, in the peaceful dark. At 
length Piers spoke in a low, accusing tone. 

“You didn’t say your prayers. What do you mean 
by getting into bed without saying your prayers ? ” 


64 JALNA 

Finch was staggered. This was something new. Piers, 
of all people, after him about prayers! There was some¬ 
thing ominous about it. 

“I forgot,” he returned, heavily. 

“Well, you’ve no right to forget. It’s an important 
thing at your time of life to pray long and earnestly. If 
you prayed more and sulked less, you’d be healthier and 
happier.” 

“Rot. What are you givin’ us?” 

“ I’m in dead earnest. Out you get and say your 
prayers.” 

“ You don’t pray yourself,” complained Finch, bitterly. 
“You haven’t said prayers for years.” 

“ That’s nothing to you. I’ve a special compact with 
the Devil, and he looks after his own. But you, my little 
lamb, must be separated from the goats.” 

“Oh, let me alone,” growled Finch. “I’m sleepy. 
Let me alone.” 

“ Get up and say your prayers.” 

“Oh, Piers, don’t be a--” 

“ Be careful what you call me. Get out.” 

“ Shan’t.” He clutched the blankets desperately, for 
he feared what was coming. 

“You won’t get up, eh? You won’t say your prayers, 
eh ? I’ve got to force you, eh ? ” 

With each question Piers’s strong fingers sought a ten¬ 
derer spot in Finch’s anatomy. 

“ Oh — oh — oh! Piers! Please let me up! Ow-eee- 
ee! ” With a last terrible squeak Finch was out on the 
floor. He stood rubbing his side cautiously. Then he 
almost blubbered: “ What the hell do you want me to do, 
anyway ? ” 

“ I want you to say your prayers properly. I’m not 
going to have you start being lax at your age. Down on 
your knees.” 


PIERS AND HIS LOVE 


65 

Finch dropped to his knees on the cold floor. Kneeling 
by the bedside in the pale moonlight, he was a pathetic 
young figure. But the sight held no pathos for Piers. 

“Now, then,” he said. “Fire away.” Finch pressed 
his face against his clenched hands. 

“Why don’t you begin?” asked Piers, rising on his 
elbow and speaking testily. 

“I — I have begun,” came in a muffled voice. 

“ I can’t hear you. How do you expect the Almighty 
to hear you if I can’t? Speak up.” 

“I c-can’t. I won’t!” 

“You shall. Or you’ll be sorry.” 

In the stress of the moment, all Finch’s prayers left 
him, as earlier all his Euclid had done. In the dim chaos 
of his soul only two words of supplication remained. 
“ Oh, God,” he muttered, hoarsely, and because he could 
think of nothing else, and must pray or be abused by 
that devil Piers, he repeated the words again and again 
in a hollow, shaking voice. 

Piers 4 lay listening blandly. He thought Finch the most 
ridiculous duffer he had ever known. He was a mystery 
Piers would never fathom. Suddenly he thought: “ I’m 
fed up with this,” and said: “ Enough, enough. It’s not 
much of a prayer you’ve made, but still you’ve a nice in¬ 
timate way with the Almighty. You’d make a good 
Methodist of the Holy Roller variety.” He added, not 
unkindly, “ Hop into bed now.” 

But Finch would not hop. He clutched the counter¬ 
pane and went on sobbing, “ Oh, God! ” The room was 
full of the presence of the Deity to him, now wearing the 
face of the terrible, austere Old Testament God, now, 
miraculously, the handsome, sneering face of Piers. Only 
a rap on the head brought him to his senses. He some¬ 
how got his long body back into bed, shivering all 
over. 


66 JALNA 

Eden threw the door open. “ One might as well,” he 
complained in a high voice, “ live next door to a circus. 
You're the most disgusting young — ” and he delivered 
himself of some atrocious language. He interrupted him¬ 
self to ask, cocking his head, “Is he crying? What’s he 
crying for?” 

“Just low-spirited, I expect,” replied Piers, in a sleepy 
voice. 

“ What are you crying for, Finch ? ” 

“ Let me alone, can’t you ? ” screamed Finch, in a sud¬ 
den fury. “ You let me alone! ” 

“I think he’s sniveling over his report. Renny was 
up in the air about it,” said Piers. 

“Oh, is that it? Well, study will do more than snivel¬ 
ing to help that.” And Eden disappeared as he had come. 

The two brothers lay in the moonlight. Finch was 
quiet save for an occasional gulp. Piers’s feelings toward 
him were magnanimous now. He was such a helpless 
young fool. Piers thought it rather hard that he had been 
born between Eden and Finch. Wedged in between a 
poet and a fool. What a sandwich! Of a certainty, he 
was the meaty part. 

His thoughts turned to Pheasant. She was of never- 
failing interest to him: her pretty gestures, her reckless 
way of throwing her heart open to him, her sudden with¬ 
drawals, the remoteness of her profile. He could see her 
face in the moonlight as though she were in the room with 
him. Soon she would be, instead of snuffling young 
Finch! He loved her with every inch of his body. He 
alone of all the people in Jalna knew what real love was. 
Strange that, being absorbed by love as he was, he should 
have time to play with young Finch and make him miser¬ 
able. No denying that there lurked a mischievous devil 
in him. Then, too, he had suffered so much anxiety 
lately that to have everything settled, to be certain of hav- 


PIERS AND HIS LOVE 67 

mg his own way, made him feel like a young horse 
suddenly turned out into the spring pastures, ready to 
run and kick and bite his best friend from sheer high 
spirits. 

Poor old Finch! Piers gave the bedclothes a jerk over 
Finch’s protruding shoulder and put an arm around him. 


VI 

PHEASANT AND MAURICE 


Two weeks later Pheasant awakened one morning at 
sunrise. She could not sleep, because it was her wedding 
day. She jumped out of bed and ran to the window to 
see whether the heavens were to smile on her. 

The sky was radiant as a golden sea, and just above 
the sun a cloud shaped like a great red whale floated as 
in a dream. Below her window, shutting in the lawn, 
the cherry orchard had burst into a sudden perfection 
of bloom. The young trees stood in snowy rows like 
expectant young girls awaiting their first communion. 
A cowbell was jangling down in the ravine. 

Pheasant leaned across the sill, her cropped brown hair 
all on end, her nightdress falling from one slim shoulder. 
She was happy because of the gay serenity of the morn¬ 
ing, because the cherry trees had come into bloom for her 
wedding day; yet she was depressed, because it was her 
wedding day and she had nothing new to wear. Besides, 
she would have to go to live at Jalna, where nobody 
wanted her except Piers. 

She was to meet him at two o’clock. He had borrowed 
a car, and they were to drive to Stead to be married. 
This was outside Mr. Fennel’s parish. Then they were 
to go to the city for the night, but they must be back at 
Jalna the next day because Piers was anxious about the 
spring sowing. What sort of reception would the family 
at Jalna give them? They had been kind always, but 
would they be kind to her as Piers’s wife? Still, Piers 
would take care of her. She would face the world with 
him at her side. 


PHEASANT AND MAURICE 69 

She drummed her white fingers on the sill, watching 
the sun twinkle on her engagement ring which thus far 
she had only dared to wear at night. She thought of that 
blissful moment when each had stared into the other’s 
face, watching love flower there like the cherry tree burst¬ 
ing into bloom. She would love him always, let him 
cuddle his head against her shoulder at night, and go 
into the fields with him in the morning. She was glad 
he had chosen the land as his job, instead of one of the 
professions. She was too ignorant to be the wife of 
a learned young man. To Piers she could unfold 
her childish speculations about life without embar¬ 
rassment. 

For the hundredth time she examined the few clothes 
she had laid in an immense shabby portmanteau for her 
wedding journey — her patent-leather shoes and her one 
pair of silk stockings, a pink organdie dress, really too 
small for her, four handkerchiefs, — well, she had plenty 
of them, at least, and one never knew when one might 
shed tears, — a nightdress, and an India shawl that had 
been her grandmother’s. She did not suppose she would 
need the shawl; she had never worn it except when play¬ 
ing at being grown up, but it helped to make a more im¬ 
pressive trousseau, and it might be necessary to have a 
wrap at dinner in the hotel, or if they went to the opera. 
She felt somewhat cheered as she replaced them and 
fastened the spongy leather straps. After all, they might 
have been fewer and worse. 

She got out her darning things and mended — or rather 
puckered together — a large hole in the heel of a brown 
stocking she was to wear on the journey. She mended 
the torn buttonholes of her brown coat, sprinkled a 
prodigious amount of cheap perfume over the little brown 
dress that lay in a drawer ready to put on, and found her¬ 
self chilled, for she had not yet dressed. 


;o JALNA 

She hastily put on her clothes, washed her face, and 
combed her hair, staring at herself in the glass. She 
thought dismally: “Certainly I am no beauty. Nannie 
has trimmed my hair badly. I’m far too thin, and I 
haven’t at all that sleek look becoming in a bride. No 
one could imagine a wreath of orange blossoms on my 
head. A punchinello’s cap would be more appropriate. 
Ah, well, there have been worse-looking girls led to the 
altar, I dare say.” 

Maurice Vaughan was already at the table, eating 
sausages and fried potatoes. He did not say good morn¬ 
ing, but he put some of the food on a plate and pushed it 
toward her. Presently he said: — 

“Jim Martin is coming with a man from Brancepeth 
to-day. Have Nannie put the dinner off till one. We ’ll 
be busy.” 

Pheasant was aghast. She was to meet Piers at two. 
How could she get away in time? And if she did not 
turn up for dinner Maurice might make inquiries, get 
suspicious. Her hands shook as she poured her tea. 
She could not properly see the breakfast things. 

Maurice stared at her coldly. “ Did you hear what I 
said?” he asked. “What’s the matter with you this 
morning?” 

“ I was busy thinking. Yes, you want dinner at two; 
I heard.” 

“ I said one o’clock. I’d better give the order myself, 
if you haven’t the wit.” 

Pheasant was regaining her self-possession. 

“ How easily you get out of temper,” she said, coolly. 
“Of course I’ll remember. I hope Mr. Martin will be 
soberer than he was the last time he was here. He put 
a pickle in his tea instead of sugar, and slept all evening, 
I remember, in his chair.” 

“I don’t.” 


PHEASANT AND MAURICE 


7 i 

“ I dare say you don’t. You were pretty far gone 
yourself.” 

Vaughan burst out laughing. The audacities of this 
only half-acknowledged young daughter of his amused 
him. Yet, perversely, when she was meek and eager to 
please, he was often unkind to her, seeming to take pleas¬ 
ure in observing how she had inherited a capacity for 
suffering equal to his own. 

Maurice Vaughan was the grandson and only male 
descendant of the Colonel Vaughan whose letters had 
persuaded Philip Whiteoak to remove westward from 
Quebec. He was an only child, who had come to his 
parents late in life. He had been too gently reared, and 
had grown into a heavily built, indolent, arrogant youth, 
feeling himself intellectually above all his associates, even 
Renny Whiteoak whom he loved. At twenty he nour¬ 
ished the illusion that he would become a great man in 
the affairs of his country with no effort on his part. At 
twenty-one he became engaged to Meg Whiteoak, charmed 
by that ineffably sweet smile of hers and her drowsy 
quiescence toward himself. The parents of the two were 
almost beside themselves with pleasure. They scarcely 
dared to breathe lest a breath too hot or too cold should 
damp the ardor of the young pair and the so desirable 
match be not consummated. 

Meggie would not be hurried. A year’s engagement 
was proper, and a year’s engagement she would have. 
Maurice, idle and elegant, attracted the attention of a 
pretty, sharp-featured village girl, Elvira Gray. She 
took to picking brambleberries in the woods where 
Maurice slouched about with his gun—the same woods 
where Piers and Pheasant now met. Maurice, while he 
waited impatiently for Meg, was comforted by the love 
of Elvira. 


72 JALNA 

A month before the marriage was to take place, a tiny 
bundle containing a baby was laid one summer night on 
the Vaughans’ doorstep. Old Mr. Vaughan, awakened 
by its faint cry, went downstairs in his slippers, opened 
the front door, and found the bundle, on which a note 
was pinned, which read: “ Maurice Vaughan is the father 
of this baby. Please be kind to it. It hasn’t harmed 
no one.” 

Mr. Vaughan fell in a faint on the steps and was 
found, lying beside the baby, by a farm laborer who read 
the note and quickly spread the news. The child was 
carried into the house and the news of its arrival to Jalna. 

As proper in the heroine of such a tragedy, Meg locked 
herself in her room and refused to see anyone. She re* 
fused to eat. Maurice, after a heart-rending morning 
with his parents, during which he acknowledged every¬ 
thing, went and hid himself in the woods. It was found 
that Elvira, an orphan, had disappeared. 

Meg’s father, accompanied by his brothers, Nicholas 
and Ernest, went to thrash out the matter with Mr. 
Vaughan. They were quite twenty years younger than 
he, and they all raged around the poor distracted man at 
once, in true Whiteoak fashion. Still, in spite of their 
outraged feelings, they agreed that the engagement was 
not to be broken, that the marriage must take place at 
the appointed time. A home could be found for the 
baby. They drove back to Jalna, after having had some 
stiff drinks, feeling that, thank God, everything had been 
patched up, and it would be a lesson to the young fool, 
though rather rough on Meggie. 

Meggie could not be persuaded to leave her room. 
Trays of food placed outside her door were left un¬ 
touched. One night, after four days of misery, young 
Maurice rode over to Jalna on his beautiful chestnut 
mare. He threw a handful of gravel against Meggie’s 


PHEASANT AND MAURICE 


73 

window and called her name. She made no answer. He 
repeated it with tragic insistence. Finally Meg appeared 
in the bright moonlight, framed as a picture by the vine- 
clad window. She sat with her elbow on the sill and her 
chin on her palm, listening, while he, standing with the 
mare’s bridle over his arm, poured out his contrition. 
She listened impassively, with her face raised moonward, 
till he had done, and then said: “ It is all over. I cannot 
marry you, Maurice. I shall never rftarry anyone.” 

Maurice could not and would not believe her. He was 
unprepared for such relentless stubbornness beneath such 
a sweet exterior. He explained and implored for two 
hours. He threw himself on the ground and wept, while 
the mare cropped the grass beside him. 

Renny, whose room was next Meg’s, could bear it no 
longer. He flew downstairs to Maurice’s side and joined 
his supplications to his friend’s in rougher language. 
Nothing could move Meggie. She listened to the impas¬ 
sioned appeals of the two youths with tears raining down 
her pale cheeks; then, with a final gesture of farewell, 
she closed the window. 

Meggie was interviewed by each of her elders in turn. 
Her father, her uncles, her young stepmother, — who 
had hoped so soon to be rid of her, — all exercised their 
powers of reasoning with her. Grandmother also tried 
her hand, but the sight of Meggie, suave yet immovable 
as Gibraltar, was too much for the old lady. She hit 
her on the head, which caused Philip Whiteoak to inter¬ 
vene, and say that he would not have his little girl forced 
into any distasteful marriage, and that it was small 
wonder if Meggie couldn’t stomach a bridegroom who 
had just made a mother of a chapped country wench. 

Meggie emerged from her retirement, pale but tran¬ 
quil. Her life suffered little outward derangement from 
this betrayal of her affections. However, she cared less 


74 JALNA 

for going out with other young people, and spent many 
hours in her bedroom. It was at this time that she ac¬ 
quired the habit of eating almost nothing at the table, 
getting ample nourishment from agreeable little lunches 
carried to her room. She became more and more devoted 
to her brothers, pouring out on them a devotion with 
which she sought to drown the image of her lover. 

Maurice never again came nearer to Jalna than its 
stables. The friendship between him and Renny still 
endured. Together they went through the hardships of 
the War years later. When Pheasant was three years 
old, Mr. and Mrs. Vaughan died within the year, and she 
was left to the care of an unloving young father whom 
she could already call “ Maurice.” Misfortune followed 
close upon bereavement. Mining stocks in which nearly 
all of the Vaughans’ money was invested became worth¬ 
less and Maurice’s income declined from ten thousand 
a year to less than two. He made something from breed¬ 
ing horses, but as Pheasant grew up she never knew 
what it was to have two coins to rub together or attrac¬ 
tive garments with which to clothe her young body. The 
thousand acres bought from the government by the first 
Vaughan had dwindled to three hundred. Of these only 
fifty lay under cultivation; the rest were in pasture and 
massive oak woods. The ravine that traversed Jalna 
narrowly spread into a valley through Vaughanlands, 
ending in a shallow basin, in the middle of which stood 
the house, with hanging shutters, sagging porch, and 
moss-grown roof. 

The one servant now kept was an old Scotchwoman, 
Nannie, who spoke but rarely and then in a voice scarcely 
above a whisper. Beside Jalna, teeming with loud-voiced, 
intimate, inquisitive people, Vaughanlands seemed but an 
echoing shell, the three who dwelt there holding aloof in 
annihilating self-absorption. 


PHEASANT AND MAURICE 


75 

Dinner at one, instead of half-past twelve as usual, 
threw Pheasant’s plans into confusion. She felt sud¬ 
denly weak, defenseless, insecure. She felt afraid of her¬ 
self. Afraid that she would suddenly cry out to Maurice: 
“ I’m going to run away to be married at half-past one! 
Dinner must be at the regular time.” 

What a start that would give him! She pictured his 
heavy, untidy face startlingly concentrated into dismay. 

“ What’s that ? ” he would exclaim. “ What’s that, 
you little devil?” 

Then she would hiss: “It’s true. I’m going to be 
married this very day. And I’m going to marry into 
the Jalna family who wouldn’t have you, my fine fellow.” 

Instead of this she said meekly: “Oh, Maurice, I’m 
afraid I’ll have to take my dinner at half-past twelve. 
I’ve an appointment with the dentist in Stead at two 
o’clock.” 

She wondered why she had said that, for she had never 
been to a dentist in her life. She did not know the name 
of one. 

“ What are you making appointments with the dentist 
for?” he growled. “What’s the matter with your 
teeth?” 

“I’ve been troubled by toothache lately,” she said, 
truthfully, and he remembered an irritating smell of lini¬ 
ment about her at odd times. 

They went on with their breakfast in silence, she, a 
wave of relief sweeping over her at the absence of active 
opposition, drinking cup after cup of strong tea; he 
thinking that after all it were better the child should not 
be at the table with the two men who were coming. 
Martin had a rough tongue. Not the sort of man a 
decent fellow would want to introduce to his young 
daughter, he supposed. But then, what was the use of 
trying to protect Pheasant? She was her mother’s 


76 JALNA 

daughter and he had had no respect for her mother; 
he had very little for himself, her father. Not all the 
beastly allegations current about the countryside against 
him since his first mishap were true, but they had dam¬ 
aged his opinion of himself, his dignity. He knew he 
was considered a rip, and always would be even when the 
patch of white that was coming above one temple spread 
over his whole head. 

As for Pheasant, she was filled by sudden unaccount¬ 
able compassion for him. Poor Maurice! To-morrow 
morning, and all the mornings to come, he would be eat¬ 
ing breakfast alone. To be sure, they seldom spoke, but 
still she was there beside him; she carried his messages 
to Nannie; she poured his tea; and she had always gone 
with him to admire the new colts. Well, perhaps when 
she was not there he would be sorry that he had not been 
nicer to her. 

She was so inexperienced that she thought of going to 
live at Jalna as of removal to a remote habitation where 
she would be cut off permanently from all her past life. 

When Maurice had swallowed the last mouthful of tea, 
he rose slowly and went to the bow window, which, being 
shadowed by a verandah, gave only a greenish half-light 
into the room. He stood with his back toward her and 
said: “Come here.” 

Pheasant started up from her chair, all nerves. What 
was he going to do to her? She had a mind to run from 
the room. She gasped: “ What do you want ? ” 

“ I want you to come here.” 

She went to his side with an assumed nonchalance. 

“You seem to be playing the heavy father this morm 
ing,” she said. 

“I want to see that tooth you’re talking about.” 

“ I was n’t talking about it. It’s you who are talking 
about it. I only said I was going to have it filled.” 


PHEASANT AND MAURICE 


77 

“ Please open your mouth,” he said, testily, putting his 
hand under her chin. 

She prayed, “ Oh, God, let there be a large hole in it,” 
and opened her mouth so wide that she looked like a 
young robin beseeching food. 

“H-m,” growled Maurice. “It should have been at¬ 
tended to some time ago.” He added, giving her chin a 
grudging stroke: “You’ve pretty little teeth. Get the 
fellow to fix them up properly.” 

Pheasant stared. He was being almost loving. At 
this late hour! He had stroked her chin — given it a 
little dab with his fingers, anyway. She felt suddenly 
angry with him. The idea of getting demonstratively 
affectionate with her at this late hour! Making it harder 
for her to leave him. 

“ Thanks,” she said. “ I ’ll be a beauty if I keep on, 
shan’t I?” 

He answered seriously: “You’re too skinny for 
beauty. But you’ll fill out. You’re nothing but a filly.” 

“This is the way fillies show their pleasure,” she said, 
and rubbed her head against his shoulder. “I wish I 
could whinny! But I can bite.” 

“I know you can,” he said, gravely. “You bit me 
when you were five. And I held your head under the 
tap for it.” 

She was glad he had reminded her of that episode. It 
would be easier to leave him after that. 

He went into the hall and took his hat from a peg. 

“ Good-bye,” she called after him. 

She watched him go along the path toward the stables, 
filling his pipe, walking with his peculiar, slouching, 
hangdog gait. She threw open the window and called 
after him: — 

“Oh, hullo, Maurice!” 

“Yes?” he answered, half wheeling. 


JALNA 


78 

“Oh— good-bye!” 

“Well, I’ll be — ” she heard him mutter, as he 
went on. 

He must think her a regular little fool. But, after all, 
it was a very serious good-bye. The next time they met, 
if ever they met again, she would be a different person. 
She would have an honorable name — a name with which 
she could face the world. She would be Mrs. Piers 
Whiteoak, 


VII 

PIERS AND PHEASANT MARRIED 


He had arrived on the very tick of two. She had been 
there twenty minutes earlier, very hot, but pale from ex¬ 
citement and fatigue; she had jogged — sometimes break¬ 
ing into a run — for nearly half a mile, lugging the 
heavy portmanteau. She had been in a state of panic 
at the approach of every vehicle, thinking she was pur¬ 
sued. Three times she had fled to the shelter of a group 
of wayside cedars, to hide while a wagon lumbered or a 
car sped by. 

Piers stowed the portmanteau in the back of the car, 
and she flung herself into the seat beside him. He started 
the car—a poor old rattletrap, but washed for the occa¬ 
sion— with a jerk. He looked absurdly Sundayish in his 
rigid best serge suit, and with an expression rather more 
wooden than exultant. 

“ They needed this car at home to-day/’ he said. “ I’d 
a hard time getting away.” 

“ So had I. Maurice was having two guests to dinner, 
and it had to be later, and he wanted me there to receive 
them.” 

“H-m. Who were they?” 

“ A Mr. Martin and another man. Both horse 
breeders.” 

“‘ Receive them ’! Good Lord! You do say ridiculous 
things! ” 

She subsided into her comer, crushed. Was this what 
it was like to elope ? A taciturn, soap-shining lover in a 
bowler hat, who called one ridiculous just at the moment 


80 JALNA 

when he should have been in an ecstasy of daring and 
protective love! 

“I think you’re very arrogant,” she said. 

“Perhaps I am,” he agreed, letting the speed out. 
“I can’t help it if I am,” he added, not without com¬ 
plaisance. “ It’s in the blood, I expect.” 

She took off her hat and let the wind ruffle her hair. 
Road signs rushed past, black-and-white cattle in fields, 
cherry orchards in full bloom, and apple orchards just 
coming into bud. 

“Gran said at dinner that I need disciplining. You’ll 
have to do it, Pheasant.” He looked around at her, 
smiling, and seeing her with her hair ruffled, her eyes 
shining, he added: “You precious darling!” 

He snatched a kiss, and Pheasant put her hand on the 
wheel beside his. They both stared at the hand, thinking 
how soon the wedding ring must outshine the engagement 
ring in importance. They experienced a strange mixture 
of sensations, feeling at the same moment like runaway 
children (for they had both been kept down by their 
elders) and tremendous adventurers, not afraid of any¬ 
thing in this shining spring world. 

They were married by the rector of Stead, a new man 
who had barely heard the names of their families, with 
perhaps a picturesque anecdote attached. Piers was so 
sunburned and solid that he looked like nothing but an 
ordinary young countryman, and Pheasant’s badly cut 
dress and cheap shoes transformed her young grace into 
coltish awkwardness. He hoped they would come reg¬ 
ularly to his church, he said, and he gave them some very 
good advice in the cool vestry. When they had gone and 
he examined the fee which Piers had given him in an 
envelope, he was surprised at its size, for Piers was de¬ 
termined to carry everything through as a Whiteoak 
should. 


PIERS AND PHEASANT MARRIED 81 


As they flew along the road which ran like a trimming 
of white braid on the brown shore that skirted the lake, 
Piers began to shout and sing in an ecstasy of achieve¬ 
ment. 

“We’re man and wife!” he chanted. “Man and 
wife! Pheasant and Piers! Man and wife!” 

His exuberance and the speed at which they drove the 
car made people stare. The greenish-blue lake, still 
stirred by a gale which had blown all night but had now 
fallen to a gentle breeze, beat on the shore a rhythmic 
accompaniment, an extravagant wedding march. Cherry 
orchards flung out the confetti of their petals on the road 
before them, and the air was unimaginably heavy with 
the heady incense of spring. Piers stopped the wagon of 
a fruit vender and bought oranges, of which Pheasant 
thrust sections into his mouth as he drove, and ate eagerly 
herself, for excitement made them thirsty. As they 
neared the suburbs of the city she threw the rinds into 
the ditch and scrubbed her lips and hands on her hand¬ 
kerchief. She put on her hat and sat upright then, her 
hands in her lap, feeling that everyone who met them 
must realize that they were newly married. 

Piers had spoken for rooms in the Queen’s hotel which 
the Whiteoaks had frequented for three generations. He 
had not been there very much himself — a few times to 
dinner in company with Renny, twice for birthday treats 
as a small boy with Uncle Nicholas. 

Now on his wedding day he had taken one of the best 
bedrooms with bath adjoining. His blood was all in his 
head as the clerk gave a surreptitious smile and handed 
the key to a boy. The boy went lopsidedly before them 
to the bedroom, carrying the antiquated portmanteau. 
All the white closed doors along the corridor made 
Pheasant feel timid. She fancied there were ears against 
all the panels, eyes to the keyholes. What if Maurice 


82 JALNA 

should suddenly pounce out on them? Or Renny? Or 
terrible Grandmother Whiteoak ? 

When they were alone in the spacious, heavily fur¬ 
nished hotel bedroom, utterly alone, with only the deep 
rumble of the traffic below to remind them of the ex¬ 
istence of the world, a sudden feeling of frozen dignity, 
of aloofness from each other, took possession of them. 

“Not a bad room, eh? Think you’ll be comfortable 
here ? ” And he added, almost challengingly: “It’s one 
of the best rooms in the hotel, but if there’s anything 
you’d like different — ” 

“ Oh, no. It’s nice. It ’ll do nicely, thank you.” 

Could they be the young runaway couple who had 
raced along the lake-shore road, singing and eating 
oranges ? 

“ There’s your bag,” he said, indicating the ponderous 
portmanteau. 

“Yes,” she agreed. “I’ve got the bag all right.” 

“ I wonder what we’d better do first,” he added, star¬ 
ing at her. She looked so strange to him in this new 
setting that he felt as though he were really seeing her 
for the first time. 

“What time is it?” 

“Half-past five.” 

She noticed then that the sun had disappeared behind a 
building across the street, and that the room lay in a 
yellowish shadow. Evening was coming. 

“Hadn’t you better send the telegrams?” 

“I expect I had. I’ll go down and do that, and see 
that we’ve a table reserved; and, look here, shouldn’t 
you like to go to the theatre to-night?” 

Pheasant was thrilled at that. “Oh, I’d love the 
theatre! Is there something good on?” 

“ I ’ll find out, and get tickets, and you can be chang¬ 
ing. Now about those telegrams. How would it do if 


PIERS AND PHEASANT MARRIED 83 

I just send one to Renny, something like this: 4 Pheasant 
and I married. Home to-morrow. Tell Maurice.’ 
Would that be all right?” 

“No,” she said, firmly. “Maurice must have a tele¬ 
gram all to himself, from me. Say: ‘ Dear Maurice — ’ ” 

“Good Lord! You can’t begin a telegram, 'Dear 
Maurice.’ It isn’t done. Tell me what you want to say 
and I ’ll put it in the proper form.” 

Pheasant spoke in an incensed tone. “ See here; is this 
your telegram or mine? I’ve never written a letter or 
sent a telegram to Maurice in my life and I probably 
never shall again. So it’s going to begin: * Dear 
Maurice.’ ” 

“All right, my girl. Fire away.” 

“ Say, ‘ Dear Maurice: Piers and I are married. Tell 
Nannie. Yours sincerely, Pheasant.’ That will do.” 

Piers could not conceal his mirth at such a telegram, 
but he promised to send it, and after giving her body a 
convulsive squeeze and receiving a kiss on the sunburned 
bridge of his nose he left her. 

She was alone. She was married. All the old life 
was over and the new just beginning. She went to the 
dressing table and stood before the three-sectioned 
mirror. It was wonderful to see her own face there, 
from all sides at once. She felt that she had never really 
seen herself before — no wonder her reflection looked 
surprised. She turned this way and that, tilting her head 
like a pretty bird. She took off her brown dress and 
stood enthralled by the reflection of her charms in knick¬ 
ers and a little white camisole. She turned on the electric 
light, and made a tableau with her slender milky arms 
upraised and her eyes half closed. She wished she could 
spend a long time playing with these magical reflections, 
but Piers might come back and find her not dressed. 

A bell in some tower struck six. 


84 JALNA 

She saw that her hands needed washing and hoped 
there would be soap in the bathroom. She gasped when 
she had pressed the electric button and flooded the room 
with a hard white light. The fierce splendor of it dazzled 
her. At home there was a bathroom with a bare un¬ 
covered floor on which stood an ancient green tin bath, 
battered and disreputable. The towels were old and 
fuzzy, leaving bits of lint all over one's body, and the 
cake of soap was always like jelly, because Maurice 
would leave it in the water. Here were glistening tile 
and marble, nickel polished like new silver, an enormous 
tub of virgin whiteness, and a row of towels fit only 
for a bride. “And, by my halidom,” she exclaimed, 
— for she was devoted to Sir Walter Scott, — “I am 
the bride!" 

She locked herself in and took a bath, almost rever¬ 
ently handling the luxurious accessories. Such quanti¬ 
ties of steaming water! Such delicate soap! Such satiny 
towels! As she stepped dripping on to the thick bath 
mat she felt that never till that moment had she been truly 
clean. 

Her hair was sleekly brushed, and she was doing up 
her pink-and-white dress when Piers arrived. He had 
sent off the telegrams — and not neglected the “Dear” 
for Maurice. He had got orchestra chairs for a Rus¬ 
sian vaudeville/ He took her to the ladies’ drawing-room 
and set her in a white-and-gold chair where she waited 
while he scrubbed and beautified himself. 

They were at their own table in a corner where they 
could see the entire dining room: rows and rows of white- 
clothed tables, glimmering with silver, beneath shaded 
lights; a red-faced waiter with little dabs of whisker 
before his ears, who took a fatherly interest in their 
dinner. 

Piers whispered: “What will you have, Mrs. Piers 


PIERS AND PHEASANT MARRIED 85 

Whiteoak?”— and put everything out of her head but 
those magic words. 

Piers ordered the dinner. Delicious soup. A tiny piece 
of fish with a strange sauce. Roast chicken. Asparagus. 
Beautiful but rather frightening French pastries — one 
hardly knew how to eat them. Strawberries like dis¬ 
solving jewels. (“But where do they come from, Piers, 
at this time of year?”) Such dark coffee. Little gold- 
tipped cigarettes, specially bought for her. The scented 
smoke circled about their heads, accentuating their 
isolation. 

Four men at the table next them did not seem able to 
keep their eyes off her. They talked earnestly to each 
other, but their eyes, every now and again, would slide 
toward her, and sometimes, she was sure, they were talk¬ 
ing about her. The odd thing was that the conscious¬ 
ness of their attention did not confuse her. It exhilarated 
her, gave her a certainty of poise and freedom of gesture 
which otherwise she would not have had. 

She had carried the gold-embroidered India shawl that 
had been her grandmother’s down to dinner, and when 
she became aware that these four dark men were watch¬ 
ing her, speculating about her, some instinct, newly 
awakened, told her to put the shawl about her shoulders, 
told her that there was something about the shawl that 
suited her better than the little pink-and-white dress. She 
held it closely about her, sitting erect, looking straight 
into Piers’s flushed face, but she was conscious of every 
glance, every whisper from the four at the next table. 

When she and Piers passed the men on their way out, 
one of them was brushed by the fringe of her shawl. His 
dark eyes were raised to her face, and he inclined his 
head toward the shawl as though he sought the light 
caress from it. He was a man of about forty. Pheasant 
felt that the shawl was a magic shawl, that she floated 


86 JALNA 

in it, that it bewitched all it touched. Her small brown 
head rose out of its gorgeousness like a sleek flower. 

The Russian company was a new and strange experi¬ 
ence. It opened the gates of an undreamed-of and exotic 
world. She heard the “Volga Boat Song” sung in a 
purple twilight by only dimly discerned foreign seamen. 
She heard the ragings and pleadings in a barbarous 
tongue when a savage crew threw their captain’s mistress 
overboard because she had brought them ill luck. The 
most humorous acts had no smile from her. They were 
enthralling, but never for a moment funny. The moon¬ 
faced showman, with his jargon of languages, had a 
dreadful fascination for her, but she saw nothing amus¬ 
ing in his patter. To her he was the terrifying magician 
who had created all this riot of noise and color. He was 
a sinister man, at whom one gazed breathlessly, gripping 
Piers’s hand beneath the shawl. She had never been in 
a theatre before. And Piers sat, brown-faced, solid, 
smiling steadily at the stage, and giving her fingers a 
steady pressure. 

Passing through the foyer, there was a dense crowd 
that surged without haste toward the outer doors. 
Pheasant pressed close to Piers, looking with shy curi¬ 
osity at the faces about her. Then someone just behind 
took her wrist in his hand, and slid his other hand lightly 
along her bare arm to beneath the shoulder, where it 
rested a moment in casual caress, then was withdrawn. 

Pheasant trembled all over, but she did not turn her 
head. She knew without looking that the hand had been 
the hand of the man whose head she had brushed with 
her shawl. When she and Piers reached the street she 
saw the four men together, lighting cigarettes, just ahead. 

She felt old in experience. 

It was only a short distance to the hotel. They walked 
among other laughing, talking people, with a great full 


PIERS AND PHEASANT MARRIED 87 

moon rising at the end of the street, and with the bright¬ 
ness of the electric light giving an air of garish gayety 
to the scene. Pheasant felt that it must last forever. 
She could not believe that to-morrow it would be all 
over, and they would be going back to Jalna, facing the 
difficulties there. 

From their room there was quite an expanse of sky 
visible. Piers threw the window open and the moon 
seemed then to stare in at them. 

They stood together at the window looking up at it. 

“The same old moon that used to shine down on us 
in the woods/'’ Piers said. 

“It seems ages ago.” 

“Yes. How do you feel? Tired? Sleepy?” 

“Not sleepy. But a little tired.” 

“ Poor little girl! ” 

He put his arms about her and held her close to him. 
His whole being seemed melting into tenderness toward 
her. At the same time his blood was singing in his ears 
the song of possessive love. 


VIII 

WELCOME TO JALNA 

The car moved slowly along the winding driveway to¬ 
ward the house. The driveway was so darkened by 
closely ranked balsams that it was like a long greenish 
tunnel, always cool and damp. Black squirrels flung them¬ 
selves from bough to bough, their curving tails like glossy 
notes of interrogation. Every now and again a startled 
rabbit showed its downy brown hump in the long grass. 
So slowly the car moved, the birds scarcely ceased their 
jargon of song at its approach. 

Piers felt horribly like a schoolboy returning after 
playing truant. He remembered how he had sneaked 
along this drive, heavy-footed, knowing he would “ catch 
it,” and how he had caught it, at Renny’s efficient hands. 
He slumped in his seat as he thought of it. Pheasant sat 
stiffly erect, her hands clasped tightly between her knees. 
As the car stopped before the broad wooden steps that 
led to the porch, a small figure appeared from the shrub¬ 
bery. It was Wakefield, carrying in one hand a fishing 
rod, and in the other a string from which dangled a soli¬ 
tary perch. 

“ Oh, hullo,” he said, coming over the lawn to them. 
“ We got your telegram. Welcome to Jalna! ” 

He got on to the running board and extended a small 
fishy hand to Pheasant. 

“ Don’t touch him,” said Piers. “ He smells beastly.” 

Wakefield accepted the rebuff cheerfully. 

“ I like the smell of fish myself,” he said pointedly to 
Pheasant. “ And I forgot that some people don’t. Now 
Piers likes the smell of manure better because working 


WELCOME TO JALNA 89 

with manure is his job. He’s used to it. Granny says 
that one can get used — ” 

“Shut up,” ordered Piers, “and tell me where the 
family is.” 

“I really don’t know,” answered Wakefield, flapping 
the dead fish against the door of the car, “because it’s 
Saturday, you see, and a free day for me. I got Mrs. 
Wragge to put me up a little lunch — just a cold chop and 
a hard-boiled egg, and a lemon tart and a bit of cheese, 
and — ” 

“For heaven’s sake,” said Piers, “stop talking and 
stop flapping that fish against the car! Run in and see 
what they ’re doing. I’d like to see Renny alone.” 

“Oh, you can’t do that, I’m afraid. Renny’s over 
with Maurice this afternoon. I expect they’re talking 
over what they will do to you two. It takes a lot of 
thought and talk, you see, to arrange suitable punishments. 
Now the other day Mr. Fennel wanted to punish me 
and he simply couldn’t think of anything to do to me 
that would make a suitable impression. Already he’d 
tried — ” 

Piers interrupted, fixing Wakefield with his eye: “Go 
and look in the drawing-room windows. I see firelight 
there. Tell me who is in the room.” 

“ All right. But you’d better hold my fish for me, be¬ 
cause someone might look out of the window and see me, 
and, now I come to think of it, Meggie told me I wasn’t 
to go fishing to-day, and it slipped right out of my head, 
the way things do with me. I expect it’s my weak heart.” 

“If I don’t thrash you,” said his brother, “before 
you’re an hour older, my name isn’t Piers Whiteoak. 
Give me the fish.” He jerked the string from the little 
boy’s hand. 

“ Hold it carefully, please,” admonished Wakefield over 
iiis shoulder, as he lightly mounted the steps. He put 


90 JALNA 

his face against the pane, and stood motionless a space. 

Pheasant saw that the shadows were lengthening. A 
cool damp breeze began to stir the shaggy grass of the 
lawn, and the birds ceased to sing. 

Piers said: “I’m going to throw this thing away.” 

“Oh, no,” said Pheasant, “don’t throw the little fel¬ 
low’s fish away.” A nervous tremor ran through her, 
more chill than the breeze. She almost sobbed: “Ugh, 
I’m so nervous! ” 

“ Poor little kid,” said Piers, laying his hand over hers. 
His own jaws were rigid, and his throat felt as though a 
hand were gripping it. The family had never seemed so 
formidable to him. He saw them in a fierce phalanx 
bearing down on him, headed by Grandmother ready to 
browbeat — abuse him. He threw back his shoulders and 
drew a deep breath. Well — let them! If they were 
unkind to Pheasant, he would take her away. But he did 
not want to go away. He loved every inch of Jalna. He 
and Renny loved the place as none of the others did. 
That was the great bond between them. Piers was very 
proud of this fellowship of love for Jalna between him 
and Renny. 

“Confound the kid!” he said. “What is he doing?” 

“He’s coming.” 

Wakefield descended the steps importantly. 

“They’re having tea in the parlor just as though it 
were Sunday,” he announced. “ A fire lighted. It looks 
like a plate of Sally Lunn on the table. Perhaps it’s 
a kind of wedding feast. I think we’d better go in. I’d 
better put my fish away first though.” 

Piers relinquished the perch, and said:“ I wish Renny 
were there.” 

“ So do I,” agreed Wakefield. “ A row’s ever so much 
better when he’s in it. Gran always says he’s a perfect 
Court for a row.” 


WELCOME TO JALNA 91 

Piers and Pheasant went slowly up the steps and into 
the house. He drew aside the heavy curtains that hung 
before the double doors of the drawing-room and led her 
into the room that seemed very full of people. 

There were Grandmother, Uncle Nicholas, Uncle Er¬ 
nest, Meg, Eden, and young Finch, who was slumped on a 
beaded ottoman devouring seedcake. He grinned sheep¬ 
ishly as the two entered, then turned to stare at his grand¬ 
mother, as though expecting her to lead the attack. But 
it was Uncle Nicholas who spoke first. He lifted his 
moustache from his teacup, and raised his massive head, 
looking rather like a sardonic walrus. He rumbled: — 

“ By George, this is nothing more than I expected! But 
you pulled the wool over Renny’s eyes, you young 
rascal.” 

Meg broke in, her soft voice choked with tears: — 

“Oh, you deceitful, unfeeling boy! I don’t see how 
you can stand there and face us. And that family — 
Pheasant — I never spoke to you about it, Piers — I 
thought you’d know how I’d feel about such a mar¬ 
riage.” 

“ Hold your tongues! ” shouted Grandmother, who so 
far had only been able to make inarticulate sounds of 
rage. “ Hold your silly tongues, and let me speak.” The 
muscles in her face were twitching, her terrible brown 
eyes were burning beneath her shaggy brows. She was 
sitting directly in front of the fire, and her figure in its 
brilliant tea gown was illumined with a hellish radiance. 
Boney, sitting on the back of her chair, glowed like an 
exotic flower. His beak was sunken on his puffed breast, 
and he spread his feathers to the warmth in apparent 
oblivion to the emotion of his mistress. 

“Come here!” she shouted. “Come over here in 
front of me. Don’t stand like a pair of ninnies in the 
doorway.” 


92 JALNA 

“ Mamma,” said Ernest, “ don’t excite yourself so. It’s 
bad for you. It ’ll upset your insides, you know.” 

“ My insides are better than yours,” retorted his mother. 
“ I know how to look after them.” 

“Come closer, so she won’t have to shout at you,” 
ordered Uncle Nicholas. 

“Up to the sacrificial altar,” adjured Eden, who 
lounged near the door. His eyes laughed up at them as 
they passed toward Mrs. Whiteoak’s chair. Pheasant 
gripped Piers’s coat in icy fingers. She cast an imploring 
look at Nicholas, who had once given her a doll and re¬ 
mained a kind of god in her eyes ever since, but he only 
stared down his nose, and crumbled the bit of cake on 
his saucer. If it had not been for the support of Piers’s 
arm, she felt that she must have sunk to her knees, she 
trembled so. 

“ Now,” snarled Grandmother, when she had got them 
before her, “are n’t you ashamed of yourselves ? ” 

“No,” answered Piers, stoutly. “We’ve only done 
what lots of people do. Got married on the quiet. We 
knew the whole family would get on their hind feet if 
we told them, so we kept it to ourselves, that’s all.” 

“And do you expect — ” she struck her stick savagely 
on the floor — “do you expect that I shall allow you to 
bring that little bastard here? Do you understand what 
it means to Meg? Maurice was her fiance and he got this 
brat — ” 

“ Mamma! ” cried Ernest. 

“Easy, old lady,” soothed Nicholas. 

Finch exploded in sudden, hysterical laughter. 

Meg raised her voice. “ Don’t stop her. It’s true.” 

“Yes, what was I saying? Don’t dare to stop me! 
This brat — this brat — he got her by a slut — ” 

Piers bent over her, glaring into her fierce old face. 

“ Stop it! ” he shouted. “ Stop it, I say! ” 


WELCOME TO JALNA 93 

Boney was roused into a sudden passion by the hurri¬ 
cane about him. He thrust his beak over Grandmother’s 
shoulder, and riveting his cruel little eyes on Piers’s face, 
he poured forth a stream of Hindu abuse: — 

“ Shaitan! Shaitan ka bata! Shaitan ka butcka! Pi- 
akur! Piakur! Jab kutr! ” 

This was followed by a cascade of mocking, metallic 
laughter, while he rocked from side to side on the back 
of Grandmother’s chair. 

It was too much for Pheasant. She burst into tears, 
hiding her face in her hands. But her sobs could not be 
heard for the cursing of Boney; and Finch, shaking from 
head to foot, added his hysterical laughter. 

Goaded beyond endurance, his sunburned face crim¬ 
son with rage, Piers caught the screaming bird by the 
throat and threw him savagely to the floor, where he lay, 
as gayly colored as painted fruit, uttering strange cough¬ 
ing sounds. 

Grandmother was inarticulate. She looked as though 
she would choke. She tore at her cap and it fell over one 
ear. Then she grasped her heavy stick. Before anyone 
could stop her — if indeed they had wished to stop her — 
she had brought it with a resounding crack on to Piers’s 
head. 

“Take that,” she shouted, “miserable boy!” 

At the instant that the stick struck Piers’s head, the 
door from the hall was opened and Renny came into the 
room, followed by Wakefield, who, behind the shelter of 
his brother, peered timidly yet inquisitively at the family. 
All faces turned toward Renny, as though his red head 
were a sun and they sun-gazing flowers. 

“This is a pretty kettle of fish,” he said. 

“ He’s abusing Boney,” wailed Grandmother. “ Poor 
dear Boney! Oh, the young brute! Flog him, Renny! 
Give him a sound flogging!” 


94 JALNA 

“No! No! No! No!” screamed Pheasant. 

Nicholas heaved himself about in his chair, and said:— 

“ He deserved it. He threw the bird on the floor.” 

“Pick poor Boney up, Wakefield dear,” said Ernest. 
“ Pick him up and stroke him.” 

Except his mistress, Boney would allow no one but 
Wakefield to touch him. The child picked him up, stroked 
him, and set him on his grandmother’s shoulder. Grand¬ 
mother, in one of her gusts of affection, caught him to 
her and pressed a kiss on his mouth. “Little darling,” 
she exclaimed. “Gran’s darling! Give him a piece of 
cake, Meg.” 

Meg was crying softly behind the teapot. Wakefield 
went to her, and, receiving no notice, took the largest 
piece of cake and began to devour it. 

Renny had crossed to Piers’s side and was staring at 
his head. 

“His ear is bleeding,” he remarked. “You shouldn’t 
have done that, Granny.” 

“ He was impudent to her,” said Ernest. 

Eden cut in: “ Oh, rot! She was abusing him and the 
girl horribly.” 

Grandmother thumped the floor with her stick. 

“ I was n’t abusing him. I told him I would n’t have 
that girl in the house. I told him she was a bastard brat, 
and so she is. I told him — bring me more tea — more tea 
— where’s Philip? Philip, I want tea!” When greatly 
excited she often addressed her eldest son by his father’s 
name. 

“ For God’s sake, give her some tea,” growled 
Nicholas. “ Make it hot.” 

Ernest carried a cup of tea to her, and straightened 
her cap. 

“More cake,” she demanded. “Stop your sniveling, 
Meggie.” 


WELCOME TO JALNA 95 

“ Grandmother,” said Meg, with melancholy dignity, 
“I am not sniveling. And it isn’t much wonder if I do 
shed tears, considering the way Piers has acted.” 

“I’ve settled him,” snorted Grandmother. “Settled 
him with my stick. Ha! ” 

Piers said, in a hard voice: “Now, look here, I’m 
going to get out. Pheasant and I don’t have to stop here. 
We only came to see what sort of reception we’d get. 
Now we know, and we ’re going.” 

“ Just listen to him, Renny,” said Meg. “ He’s lost all 
his affection for us, and it seems only yesterday that he 
was a little boy like Wake.” 

“Heaven knows whom Wakefield will take up with,” 
said Nicholas. “The family’s running to seed.” 

“Will you have some tea, Renny?” asked Meg. 

“ No, thanks. Give the girl some. She’s awfully 
upset.” 

“ I don’t want tea! ” cried Pheasant, looking wildly at 
the hostile faces about her. “ I want to go away! Piers, 
please, please, take me away!” She sank into a wide, 
stuffed chintz chair, drew up her knees, covered her face 
with her hands, and sobbed loudly. 

Meg spoke with cold yet furious chagrin. 

“If only he could send you home and have done with 
you! But here you are bound fast to him. You’d 
never rest till you ’d got him bound fast. I know your 
kind.” 

Nicholas put in: “They don’t wait till they’re out of 
pinafores — that kind.” 

Eden cried: “ Oh, for God’s sake! ” 

But Piers’s furious voice drowned him out. 

“ Not another word about her. I won’t stand another 
word! ” 

Grandmother screamed: “You’ll stand another crack 
on the head, you young whelp! ” Crumbs of cake clung 


96 JALNA 

to the hairs on her chin. Wake regarded them, fasci¬ 
nated. Then he blew on them, trying to blow them off. 
Finch uttered hysterical croaking sounds. 

“ Wakefield, don’t do that,” ordered Uncle Ernest, 
“or you’ll get your head slapped. Mamma, wipe your 
chin.” 

Meg said: “ To think of the years that I’ve kept aloof 
from the Vaughans! I’ve never spoken to Maurice since 
that terrible time. None of them have set foot in this 
house. And now his daughter—'that child — the cause of 
all my unhappiness—brought here to live as Piers’s 
wife.” 

Piers retorted: “ Don’t worry, Meg. We ’re not going 
to stay.” 

“The disgrace is here forever,” she returned bitterly, 
“if you go to the other end of the earth.” Her head 
rested on her hand, supported by her short plump arm. 
Her sweetly curved lips were drawn in at the corners, in 
an expression of stubborn finality. “You’ve finished 
things. I was terribly hurt at the very beginning of my 
life. I’ve tried to forget. Your bringing this girl here 
has renewed all the hurt. Shamed me, crushed me — I 
thought you loved me, Piers — ” 

“Oh, Lord, can’t a man love his sister and another 
too ? ” exclaimed Piers, regarding her intently, with scar¬ 
let face, cut to the heart, for he loved her. 

“No one who loved his sister could love the daughter 
of the man who had been so faithless to her.” 

“And besides,” put in Nicholas, “you promised Renny 
you’d give the girl up.” 

“Oh, oh,” cried Pheasant, sitting up in her chair. 
“Did you promise that, Piers?” 

“No, I didn’t.” 

Nicholas roared: “ Yes, you did! Renny told me you 
did.” 


WELCOME TO JALNA 97 

“I never promised. Be just, now, Renny! I never 
promised, did I ? ” 

“No,” said Renny. “He didn’t promise. I told him 
to cut it out. I said there’d be trouble.” 

“Trouble — trouble — trouble,” moaned Grandmother, 
“I’ve had too much trouble. If I didn’t keep my ap¬ 
petite, I’d be dead. Give me more cake, someone. 
No, not that kind— devil’s cake. I want devil’s cake!” 
She took the cake that Ernest brought her, bit off a large 
piece, and snortled through it: “I hit the young whelp a 
good crack on the head! ” 

“ Yes, Mamma,” said Ernest. Then he inquired, 
patiently, “Mast you take such large bites?” 

“I drew the blood!” she cried, ignoring his question, 
and taking a still larger bite. “I made the lad smart 
for his folly.” 

“You ought to be ashamed, Gran,” said Eden, and the 
family began to argue noisily as to whether she had done 
well or ill. 

Renny stood looking from one excited face to another, 
feeling irritated by their noise, their ineffectuality, yet, 
in spite of all, bathed in an immense satisfaction. This 
was his family. His tribe. He was head of his family. 
Chieftain of his tribe. He took a very primitive, direct, 
and simple pleasure in lording it over them, caring for 
them, being badgered, harried, and importuned by them. 
They were all of them dependent on him except Gran, 
and she was dependent, too, for she would have died away 
from Jalna. And beside the fact that he provided for 
them, he had the inherent quality of the chieftain. They 
expected him to lay down the law; they harried him till 
he did. He turned his lean red face from one to the 
other of them now, and prepared to lay down the 
law. 

The heat of the room was stifling; the fire was scarcely 


98 JALNA 

needed; yet now, with sudden fervor, it leaped and 
crackled on the hearth. Boney, having recovered from 
Piers's rough handling, was crying in a head-splitting 
voice, “ Cake! Cake! Devil cake! ” 

“For God’s sake, somebody give him cake,” said 
Renny. 

Little Wake snatched up a piece of cake and held it 
toward Boney, but just as the parrot was at the point of 
taking it he jerked it away. With flaming temper Boney 
tried three times, and failed to snatch the morsel. He 
flapped his wings and uttered a screech that set the blood 
pounding in the ears of those in the room. 

It was too much for Finch. He doubled up on his 
footstool, laughing hysterically; the footstool slipped, 
— or did Eden’s foot push it ? — and he was sent sprawl¬ 
ing on the floor. 

Grandmother seized her cane and struggled to get to 
her feet. 

“Let me at them!” she screamed. 

“Boys! Boys!” cried Meggie, melting into sudden 
laughter. This was the sort of thing she loved — 
“rough-house” among the boys, and she sitting solidly, 
comfortably in her chair, looking on. She laughed; but 
in an instant she was lachrymose again, and averted her 
eyes from the figure of Finch stretched on the floor. 

Renny was bending over him. He administered three 
hard thumps on the boy’s bony, untidy person, and 
said: — 

“ Now, get up and behave yourself.” 

Finch got up, red in the face, and skulked to a corner. 
Nicholas turned heavily in his chair, and regarded 
Piers. 

“ As for you,” he said, “ you ought to be flayed alive 
for what you’ve done to Meggie.” 

“Never mind,” Piers returned. “I’m getting out.” 


WELCOME TO JALNA 99 

Meg looked at him scornfully. “You’d have to go a 
long way to get away from scandal — I mean, to make 
your absence really a help to me, to all of us.” 

Piers retorted: “Oh, we’ll go far enough to please you. 
We’ll go to the States — perhaps.” The “perhaps” was 
mumbled on a hesitating note. The sound of his own 
voice announcing that he would go to a foreign country, 
far from Jalna and the land he had helped to grow things 
on, the horses, his brothers, had an appalling sound. 

“What does he say?” asked Grandmother, roused 
from one of her sudden dozes. Boney had perched on 
her shoulder and cuddled his head against her long flat 
cheek. “ What’s the boy say ? ” 

Ernest answered: “ He says he’ll go to the States.” 

“The States? A Whiteoak go to the States? A 
Whiteoak a Yankee? No, no, no! It would kill me. 
He must n’t go. Shame, shame on you, Meggie, to drive 
the poor boy to the States! You ought to be ashamed 
of yourself. Oh, those Yankees! First they take Eden’s 
book and now they want Piers himself. Oh, don’t let 
him go! ” She burst into loud sobs. 

Renny’s voice was raised, but without excitement. 

“Piers is not going away — anywhere. He’s going 
to stay right here. So is Pheasant. The girl and he are 
married. I presume they’ve lived together. There’s 
no reason on earth why she should n’t make him a good 
wife — ” 

Meg interrupted: — 

“Maurice has never forgiven me for refusing to 
marry him. He has made this match between his 
daughter and Piers to punish me. He’s done it. I 
know he’s done it.” 

Piers turned to her. “Maurice has known nothing 
about it.” 

“ How can you know what schemes were in his head ? ” 


IOO JALNA 

replied Meg. “ He’s simply been waiting his chance to 
thrust his brat into Jalna.” 

Piers exclaimed: “ Good God, Meggie! I did n’t know 
you had such a wicked tongue.” 

“No back chat, please,” rejoined his sister. 

Renny’s voice, with a vibration from the chest which 
the family knew foreboded an outburst if he were op¬ 
posed, broke in. 

“ I have been talking the affair over with Maurice this 
afternoon. He is as upset about it as we are. As for his 
planning the marriage to avenge himself on you, Meg, 
that is ridiculous. Give the man credit for a little decency 
— a little sense. Why, your affair with him was twenty 
years ago. Do you think he’s been brooding over it ever 
since? And he was through the War too. He’s had a 
few things to think of besides your cruelty, Meggie! ” 

He smiled at her. He knew how to take her. And she 
liked to have her “cruelty” referred to. Her beautifully 
shaped lips curved a little, and she said, with almost girl¬ 
ish petulance: — 

“ What’s the matter with him, then? Everyone agrees 
that there’s something wrong with him.” 

“ Oh, well, I don’t think there is very much wrong with 
Maurice, but if there is, and you are responsible, you 
shouldn’t be too hard on him, or on this child, either. 
I told Piers that if he went on meeting her there’d be 
trouble, and there has been, hasn’t there? Lots of it. 
But I’m not going to drive him away from Jalna. I want 
him here—and I want my tea, terribly. Will you pour 
it out, Meggie? ” 

Silence followed his words, broken only by the snap¬ 
ping of the fire and Grandmother’s peaceful, bubbling 
snores. Nicholas took out his pipe and began to fill it 
from his pouch. Sasha leaped from the mantelpiece to 
Ernest’s shoulder and began to purr loudly, as though in 


WELCOME TO JALNA ioi 

opposition to Grandmother’s snores. Wakefield opened 
the door of a cabinet filled with curios from India, with 
which he was not allowed to play, and stuck his head 

inside. 

“Darling, don’t,” said Meg, gently. 

Renny, the chieftain, had spoken. He had said that 
Piers was not to be cast out from the tribe, and the tribe 
had listened and accepted his words as wisdom. All the 
more readily because not one of them wanted to see Piers 
cast out, even though they must accept with him an unwel¬ 
come addition to the family. Not even Meg. In truth, 
Renny was more often the organ of the family than its 
head. They knew beforehand what he would say in a 
crisis, and they excited, harried, and goaded him till he 
said it with great passion. Then, with apparent good 
grace, they succumbed to his will. 

Renny dropped into a chair with his cup of tea and 
a piece of bread and butter. His face was redder than 
usual, but he looked with deep satisfaction at the group 
about him. He had quelled the family riot. They de¬ 
pended on him, from savage old Gran down to delicate 
little Wake. They depended on him to lead them. He 
felt each one of them bound to him by a strong, invisible 
cord. He could feel the pull of the cords, drawn taut 
from himself to each individual in the room. To savage 
old Gran. To beastly young Finch. To that young fool 
Piers with his handerchief against his bleeding ear. To 
Meggie, who pictured Maurice as brooding in black 
melancholy all these years. Well, there was no doubt 
about it, Maurice was a queer devil. He had let two 
women make a very different man of him from what 
Nature had intended him to be. Renny felt the cords 
from himself stretching dark and strong to each member 
of the family. Suddenly he felt a new drawing, a fresh 
cord. It was between Pheasant and him. She was one 


102 JALNA 

of them now. His own. He looked at her, sitting up>- 
right in the big chair, her eyes swollen from crying, but 
eating her tea like a good child. Their eyes met, and she 
gave a little watery pleading smile. Renny grinned at 
her encouragingly. 

Rags had come in and Meg was ordering a fresh pot 
of tea. 

This was the Whiteoak family as it was when Alayne 
Archer came into their midst from New York. 


IX 

EDEN AND ALAYNE 


Eden found that his steps made no noise on the thick 
rug that covered the floor of the reception room of the 
New York publishing firm of Cory and Parsons, so he 
could pace up and down as restlessly as he liked without 
fear of attracting attention. He was horribly nervous. 
He had a sensation in his stomach that was akin to hun¬ 
ger, yet his throat felt so oddly constricted that to swallow 
would have been impossible. 

A mirror in a carved frame gave him, when he hesitated 
before it, a greenish reflection of himself that was not 
reassuring. He wished he had not got such a brazen coat 
of tan in the North that summer. These New Yorkers 
would surely look on him as a Canadian backwoodsman. 
His hands, as he grasped the package containing his new 
manuscript, were almost black, it seemed to him, and no 
wonder, for he had been paddling and camping among 
the Northern lakes for months. He decided to lay the 
manuscript on a table, picking it up at the last minute 
before he entered Mr. Cory’s private office. It had been 
Mr. Cory with whom he had corresponded about his 
poems, who had expressed himself as eager to read the 
long narrative poem composed that summer. For the 
book published in midsummer was being well reviewed, 
American critics finding an agreeable freshness and music 
in Eden’s lyrics. As books of poems went, it had had a 
fair sale. The young poet would get enough out of it 
perhaps to buy himself a new winter overcoat. He stood 
now, tall and slender in his loosely fitting tweeds, very 
British-looking, feeling that this solemn, luxurious room 


104 JALNA 

was the threshold over which he would step into the 
world of achievement and fame. 

The door opened and a young woman entered so 
quietly that she was almost at Eden’s side before he was 
aware of her presence. 

“Oh,” he said, starting, “I beg your pardon. I’m 
waiting to see Mr. Cory.” 

“You are Mr. Whiteoak, aren’t you?” she asked in 
a tranquil voice. 

He flushed red, very boyishly, under his tan. 

“ Yes. I’m Eden Whiteoak. I’m the — ” 

Just in time he choked back what he had been about to 
say: that he was the author of Under the North Star. It 
would have been a horrible way to introduce himself — 
just as though he had expected the whole world to know 
about his book of poems. 

However, she said, with a little excited catch of the 
breath: — 

“ Oh, Mr. Whiteoak, I could not resist coming to speak 
to you when I heard you were here. I want to tell you 
how very, very much I have enjoyed your poems. I am 
a reader for Mr. Cory, and he generally gives me the 
poetry manuscripts, because — well, I am very much 
interested in poetry.” 

“Yes, yes, I see,” said Eden, casting about to collect 
his thoughts. 

She went on in her low even voice: — 

“ I cannot tell you how proud I was when I was able 
to recommend your poems to him. I have to send in ad¬ 
verse reports on so many. Your name was new to us. 
I felt that I had discovered you. Oh, dear, this is very 
unbusinesslike, telling you all this, but your poetry 
has given me so much pleasure that—I wanted you to 
know.” 

Her face flashed suddenly from gravity into smiling. 


EDEN AND ALAYNE 


105 

Her head was tilted as she looked into his eyes, for she 
was below medium height. Eden, looking down at her, 
thought she was like some delicately tinted yet sturdy 
spring flower, gazing upward with a sort of gentle de¬ 
fiance. 

He held the hand she offered in his own warm, deeply 
tanned one. 

“My name is x 4 Jayne Archer,” she said. “Mr. Cory 
will be ready to see you in a few minutes. As a matter 
of fact, he told me to have a little talk with you about 
your new poem. It is a narrative poem, is it not? But 
I did so want to tell you that I was the ‘ discoverer' of 
your first.” 

“Well then, I suppose I may as well hand the manu¬ 
script over to you at once.” 

“No. I should give it to Mr. Cory.” 

They both looked down at the packet in his hand, 
then their eyes met and they smiled. 

“ Do you like it very much yourself ? ” she asked. “ Is 
it at all like the others?” 

“Yes, I like it — naturally,” he answered, “and yes, 
I think it has the same feeling as the others. It was good 
fun writing it, up there in the North, a thousand miles 
from anywhere.” 

“ It must have been inspiring,” she said. “ Mr. Cory 
is going to visit the North this fall. He suffers from 
insomnia. He will want to hear a great deal about it 
from you.” She led the way toward two upholstered 
chairs. “Will you please sit down and tell me more 
about the new poem ? What is it called ? ” 

“ ‘ The Golden Sturgeon.' Really, I can't tell you about 
it. You'll just have to read it. I'm not used to talking 
about my poetry. In my family it's rather a disgrace to 
write poetry.” 

They had sat down, but she raised herself in her chair 


106 JALNA 

and stared at him incredulously. She exclaimed in a 
rather hushed voice: “ Poetry ? A disgrace ? ” 

“Well, not so bad as that, perhaps,” said Eden, hur¬ 
riedly. “ But a handicap to a fellow — something to be 
lived down.” 

“ But are they not proud of you ? ” 

“ Y-Yes. My sister is. But she does n’t know anything 
about poetry. And one of my uncles. But he’s quite old. 
Reads nothing this side of Shakespeare.” 

“And your parents? Your mother?” It seemed to 
her that he must have a mother to adore him. 

“ Both dead,” he replied, and he added: “ My brothers 
really despise me for it. There is a military tradition in 
our family.” 

She asked: “ Were you through the War ? ” 

“No. I was only seventeen when peace came.” 

“Oh, how stupid I am! Of course you were too 
young.” 

She began then to talk about his poetry. Eden forgot 
that he was in a reception room of a publisher’s office. 
He forgot everything except his pleasure in her gracious, 
self-possessed, yet somehow shy presence. He heard him¬ 
self talking, reciting bits of his poems, — he had caught 
something of the Oxford intonation from his uncles,— 
saying beautiful and mournful things that would have 
made Renny wince with shame for him, could he have 
overheard. 

A stenographer came to announce that Mr. Cory would 
see Mr. Whiteoak. They arose, and looking down on 
her, he thought he had never seen such smooth, shin¬ 
ing hair. It was coiled about her head like bands of 
shimmering satin. 

He followed the stenographer to Mr. Cory’s private 
room, and was given a tense handshake and a tenser 
scrutiny by the publisher. 


EDEN AND ALAYNE 


107 

“ Sit down, Mr. Whiteoak,” he said, in a dry, precise 
voice. “ I am very glad that you were able to come to 
New York. I and my assistant, Miss Archer, have been 
looking forward to meeting you. We think your work 
is exceedingly interesting.” 

Yet his pleasure seemed very perfunctory. After a 
short discussion of the new poem which Mr. Cory took 
into his charge, he changed the subject abruptly, and 
began to fire at Eden question after question about the 
North. How far north had he been? What supplies 
were needed? Particularly, what underwear and shoes. 
Was the food very bad ? He suffered at times from in¬ 
digestion. He supposed it was very rough. His physi¬ 
cians had told him that a hunting trip up there would set 
him up, make a new man of him. He was strong enough 
but — well, insomnia was a disagreeable disorder. He 
couldn’t afford to lower his efficiency. 

Eden was a mine of information. He knew something 
about everything. As Mr. Cory listened to these details 
he grew more animated. A faint ashes-of-roses pink 
crept into his grayish cheeks. He tapped excitedly on his 
desk with the tips of his polished finger nails. 

Eden in his mind was trying to picture Mr. Cory in 
that environment, but he could not, and his fancy instead 
followed Miss Archer, with her bands of shimmering 
hair and her gray-blue eyes, set wide apart beneath a 
lovely white brow. He followed her shadow, grasping 
at it as it disappeared, imploring it to save him from Mr. 
Cory, for he had begun to hate Mr. Cory, since he be¬ 
lieved he had found out that he was interesting to the pub¬ 
lisher only as a Canadian who knew all about the country 
to which a physician had ordered him. 

Yet at that moment Mr. Cory was asking him almost 
genially to dinner at his house that night. 

“ Miss Archer will be there,” added Mr. Cory. “ She 


io8 JALNA 

will talk to you about your poetry with much more under¬ 
standing than I can, but I like it. I like it very well indeed.” 

And, naturally, Eden suddenly liked Mr. Cory. He 
suddenly seemed to discover that he was very human, 
almost boyish, like a very orderly grayish boy who had 
never been really young. But he liked him, and shook his 
hand warmly as he thanked him, and said he would be 
glad to go to dinner. 

Eden had no friends in New York, but he spent the 
afternoon happily wandering about. It was a brilliant day 
in mid-September. The tower-like skyscrapers and the 
breezy canyons of the streets fluttering bright flags — 
he did not know what the occasion was — exhilarated 
him. Life seemed very full, brimming with movement, 
adventure, poetry, singing in the blood, crying out to 
be written. 

Sitting in a tearoom, the first lines of a new poem 
began to take form in his mind. Pushing his plate of 
cinnamon toast to one side, he jotted them down on the 
back of an envelope. A quiver of nervous excitement ran 
through him. He believed they were good. He believed 
the idea was good. He found that he wanted to discuss 
the poem with Alayne Archer, to read those singing 
first lines to her. He wanted to see her face raised to 
his with that look of mingled penetration and sweet en¬ 
thusiasm for his genius — well, she herself had used the 
word once; in fact, one of the reviewers of Under the 
North Star had used the word, so surely he might let it 
slide through his own mind now and again, like a stimu¬ 
lating draught. Genius. He believed he had a spark 
of the sacred fire, and it seemed to him that she, by her 
presence, the support of her admiration, had the power 
to fan it to a leaping flame. 

He tried to sketch her face on the envelope. He did 
not do so badly with the forehead, the eyes, but he could 


EDEN AND ALAYNE 


109 

not remember her nose, — rather a soft feature, he 
guessed, — and when the mouth was added, instead of the 
look of a spring flower, gentle but defiant, that he had 
tried to achieve, he had produced a face of almost Dutch 
stolidity. Irritably he tore up the sketch and his poem 
with it. She might not be strictly beautiful, but she was 
not like that. 

That evening, in his hotel, he took a good deal of care 
with his dressing. His evening clothes were well fitting, 
and the waistcoat, of the newest English cut, very be¬ 
coming. If it had not been for that Indian coat of tan, 
his reflection would have been very satisfying. Still, it 
made him look manlier. And he had a well-cut mouth. 
Girls had told him it was fascinating. He smiled and 
showed a row of gleaming teeth, then snapped his lips 
together. Good Lord! He was acting like a movie star! 
Or a dentifrice advertisement. Ogling, just that. If 
Renny could have seen him ogling himself in the glass, 
he would have knocked his block off. Perhaps it were 
better that genius (that word again!) should be encased 
in a wild-eyed, unkempt person. He scowled, put on his 
hat and coat, and turned out the light. 

Mr. Cory lived on Sixty-first Street, in an unpreten¬ 
tious house, set between two very pretentious ones. Eden 
found the rest of the guests assembled except one, an 
English novelist who arrived a few minutes later than 
himself. There were Mr. Cory; his wife; his daughter, 
a large-faced young woman with straight black shingled 
hair; a Mr. Gutweld, a musician; and a Mr. Groves, a 
banker, who it was soon evident was to accompany Mr. 
Cory on his trip to Canada; Alayne Archer; and two very 
earnest middle-aged ladies. 

Eden found himself at dinner between Miss Archer and 
one of the earnest ladies. Opposite were the English 
novelist, whose name was Hyde, and Miss Cory. Eden 


no JALNA 

had never seen a table so glittering with exquisite glass 
and slender, shapely cutlery. His mind flew for an in¬ 
stant to the dinner table at Jalna with its huge platters 
and cumbersome old English plate. For an instant the 
faces of those about him were blotted out by the faces of 
the family at home, affectionate, arrogant, high-tempered 
— faces that, once seen, were not easily forgotten. And 
when one had lived with them all one’s life— But he 
put them away from him and turned to the earnest lady. 
Alayne Archer’s shoulder was toward him as she listened 
to Mr. Groves on her other side. 

“ Mr. Whiteoak,” said the lady, in a richly cultivated 
voice, “ I want to tell you how deeply I appreciate your 
poetry. You show a delicate sensitiveness that is crystal¬ 
like in its implications.” She fixed him with her clear 
gray eyes, and added: “And such an acute realization of 
the poignant transiency of beauty.” Having spoken, she 
conveyed an exquisite silver spoon filled with exquisite 
clear soup unflinchingly to her lips. 

“ Thanks,” mumbled Eden. “ Thank you very much.” 
He felt overcome with shyness. Oh, God, that Gran were 
here! He would like to hide his head in her lap while 
she warded off this terrible woman with her stick. He 
looked at her, a troubled expression shadowing his blue 
eyes, but she was apparently satisfied, for she went on 
talking. Presently Mr. Cory claimed her attention and 
he turned to Alayne Archer. 

“ Speak to me. Save me,” he whispered. “ I’ve never 
felt so stupid in my life. I’ve just been asked what my 
new poem was about and all I could say was — ‘a fish’! ” 

She was looking into his eyes now and he felt an elec¬ 
trical thrill in every nerve at her nearness, and an in¬ 
tangible something he saw in her eyes. 

She said: “Mr. Groves has something he wants to ask 
you about supplies for a hunting trip to Canada.” 


EDEN AND ALAYNE 


in 


Mr. Groves leaned nearer. “ How about canned 
goods ? ” he said. “ Could we take all our supplies over 
from here, or must we buy them in Canada ?” 

They talked of tinned meats and vegetables, till Mr. 
Groves turned to examine cautiously, through his 
glasses, a new dish offered by the servant. Then Miss 
Archer said softly: — 

“ So you are feeling shy? I do not wonder. Still, it 
must be very pleasant to hear such delightful things 
about your poetry.” 

Looking down over her face he thought her eyelids 
were like a Madonna’s. “I tried to make a sketch of 
you to-day, but I tore it up — and some verses with it. 
You ’ll scarcely believe it, but I made you look quite 
Dutch.” 

“ That is not so surprising,” she answered. “ On my 
mother’s side I am of Dutch extraction. I think I show 
it quite plainly. My face is broad and rather flat, and I 
have high cheek bones.” 

“ You draw an engaging picture of yourself, certainly.” 

“ But it is quite true, is it not ? ” She was smiling with 
a rather malicious amusement. “ Come, now, I do look a 
stolid Dutch Fraulein; acknowledge it.” 

He denied it stoutly, but it was true that the Dutch 
blood explained something about her. A simplicity, a 
directness, a tranquil tenacity. But with her lovely 
rounded shoulders, her delicately flushed cheeks, those 
Madonna eyelids, and that wreath of little pink and white 
flowers in her hair, he thought she was a thousand times 
more charming than any girl he had ever met. 

Hyde, the novelist, was saying, in his vibrant tones: 
“ When I come to America, I always feel that I have been 
starved at home. I eat the most enormous meals here, 
and such meals! Such fruit! Such cream! I know 
there are cows in England. I Ve seen them with my own 


112 JALNA 

eyes. I ran against one once with my car. But they don’t 
give cream. Their milk is skimmed — pale blue when it 
comes. Can anyone explain why? Mr. Whiteoak, tell 
me, do you have cream in Canada ? ” 

“ We only use reindeer’s milk there,” replied Eden. 

After dinner Hyde sauntered up to him. 

“ You are the lucky dog! The only interesting woman 
here. Who is she?” 

“ Miss Alayne Archer. She is an orphan. Her father 
was an old friend of Mr. Cory’s.” 

“Does she write?” 

“No. She reads. She is a reader for the publishing 
house. It was she who — ” But he bit that sentence off 
just in time. He wasn’t going to tell this bulgy-eyed 
fellow anything more. 

Hyde said: “ Mr. Whiteoak, had you a relative in the 
Buffs? A red-haired chap?” 

“ Yes. A brother — Renny. Did you know him ? ” 

Hyde’s eyes bulged a little more. 

“Did I know him? Rather. One of the best. Oh, 
he and I had a hell of a time together. Where is he now ? 
In Canada?” 

“Yes. He farms.” 

Hyde looked Eden over critically. “You’re not a bit 
like him. I can’t imagine Whiteoak writing poetry. He 
told me he had a lot of young brothers. 'The whelps,’ 
he used to call you. I should like to see him. Please 
remember me to him.” 

“ If you can manage it, you must ^)me to see us.” 

Hyde began to talk about his adventures with Renny 
in France. He was wound up. He seemed to forget his 
surroundings entirely and poured out reminiscences ribald 
and bloody which Eden scarcely heard. His own eyes 
followed Alayne Archer wherever she moved. He could 
scarcely forbear leaving Hyde rudely and following her. 


EDEN AND ALAYNE 


”3 

He saw the eyes of Mr. Cory and Mr. Groves on him, 
and he saw gleaming in them endless questions about 
hunting in the North. It seemed as though walls were 
closing in on him. He felt horribly young and helpless 
among these middle-aged and elderly men. In despera¬ 
tion he interrupted the Englishman. 

“ You said you would like to meet Miss Archer.” 

Hyde looked blank, then agreed cheerfully: “Yes, yes, 
I did.” 

Eden took him over to Alayne, turning his own back 
firmly on the too eager huntsmen. 

“Miss Archer,” he said, and saw a swift color tinge 
her cheeks and pass away, leaving them paler than be¬ 
fore. “May I introduce Mr. Hyde?” 

The two shook hands. 

“ I have read your new book in the proof sheets,” she 
said to Hyde, “and I think it is splendid. Only I object 
very strongly to the way you make your American 
character talk. I often wish that Englishmen would not 
put Americans into their books. The dialect they put into 
their mouths is like nothing spoken on land or sea.” She 
spoke lightly, but there was a shadow of real annoyance in 
her eyes. She had plenty of character, Eden thought; 
she was not afraid to speak her mind. He pretended to 
have noticed the same thing. The Englishman laughed 
imperturbably. 

“ Well, it’s the way it sounds to us,” he said. “ Then 
my man, you remember, is a Southerner. He doesn’t 
speak as you do here.” 

“Yes, but he is an educated Southerner, who would 
not prefix every sentence with 4 Gee ’ and call other men 
4 guys,’ and continually say, ‘ It sure is’ — I hope I’m not 
being rude ? ” 

But Hyde was not annoyed. He was merely amused. 
No protests could change his conception of American 


114 JALNA 

speech. He said to Eden: “Why don’t you Canadians 
write about Americans and see if you have better luck?” 

“ I shall write a poem about Americans,” laughed Eden, 
and the glance that flashed from his eyes into Alayne’s 
was like a sunbeam that flashes into clear water and is 
held there. 

Would they never be alone together? Yes, the pianist 
was sitting down before the piano. They melted into a 
quiet comer. There was no pretending. Each knew the 
other’s desire to escape from the rest. They sat without 
speaking while the music submerged them like a sea. 
They were at the bottom of a throbbing sea. They were 
hidden. They were alone. They could hear the pulsing 
of the great heart of life. They could feel it in their 
own heartbeats. 

* He moved a little nearer to her, staring into the room 
straight ahead of him, and he could almost feel her head 
on his shoulder, her body relaxing into his arms. The 
waves of Chopin thundered on and on. Eden scarcely 
dared to turn his face toward her. But he did, and a faint 
perfume came to him from the wreath of little French 
flowers she wore. What beautiful hands lying in her lap! 
Surely hands for a poet’s love. God, if he could only 
take them in his and kiss the palms! How tender and 
delicately scented they would be — 

The pianist was playing Dubussey. Miss Cory had 
switched off the lights, all but a pale one by the piano. 
The sea was all delicate singing wavelets then. He took 
Alayne’s hands and held them to his lips. 

As he held them, his being was shaken by a throng of 
poems rushing up within him, crying out to be born, 
touched into life by the contact of her hands. 


X 

ALAYNE AND LIFE 


Alayne Archer was twenty-eight years old when she 
met Eden Whiteoak. Her father and mother had died 
within a few weeks of each other, during an epidemic 
of influenza three years before. They had left their 
daughter a few hundreds in the bank, a few thousands in 
life insurance, and an artistic stucco bungalow in Brook¬ 
lyn, overlooking golf links and a glimpse of the ocean. 
But they had left her an empty heart, from which the love 
that had been stored increasingly for them during the 
twenty-five years flowed in an anguished stream after 
them into the unknown. It had seemed to her at first that 
she could not live without those two precious beings 
whose lives had been so closely entwined with hers. 

Her father had been professor of English in a New 
York State college, a pedantic but gentle man, who loved 
to impart information to his wife and to instruct his 
daughter, but who, in matters other than scholastic, was 
led by them as a little child. 

Her mother was the daughter of the principal of a 
small theological college in the state of Massachusetts, 
who had got into trouble more than once because of his 
advanced religious views — had, in fact, escaped serious 
trouble only because of his personal magnetism and 
charm. These qualities his daughter had inherited from 
him, and had in her turn transmitted them to her own 
daughter Alayne. 

Though an earnest little family who faced the problems 
of the day and their trips to Europe anxiously, they were 
often filled by the spirit of gentle fun. The gray bunga- 


116 JALNA 

low resounded to professorial gayety and the youthful 
response from Alayne. Professor and Mrs. Archer had 
married young, and they often remarked that Alayne was 
more like an adored young sister to them than a daughter. 
She had no intimate friends of her own age. Her par¬ 
ents sufficed. For several years before his death Pro¬ 
fessor Archer had been engaged in writing a history of 
the American Revolutionary War, and Alayne had thrown 
herself with enthusiasm into helping him with the work 
of research. Her admiration had been aroused for those 
dogged Loyalists who had left their homes and journeyed 
northward into Canada to suffer cold and privation for 
the sake of an idea. It was glorious, she thought, and 
told her father so. They had argued, and after that he 
had called her, laughingly, his little Britisher; and she 
had laughed, too, but she did not altogether like it, for 
she was proud of being an American. Still, one could 
see the other person's side of a question. 

Mr. Cory had been a lifelong friend of her father's. 
When Professor Archer died, he came forward at once 
with his assistance. He helped Alayne to dispose of the 
bungalow by the golf links — those golf links where 
Alayne and her father had had many a happy^game to¬ 
gether, with her mother able to keep her eye on them from 
the upstairs sitting-room window; he had looked into 
the state of her father's financial affairs for her, and had 
given her work in reading for the publishing house of 
Cory and Parsons. 

The first blank grief, followed by the agony of realiza¬ 
tion, had passed, and Alayne’s life settled into a sad tran¬ 
quillity. She had taken a small apartment near her work, 
and night after night she pored over her father’s manu¬ 
script, correcting, revising, worrying her young brain into 
fever over some debatable point. Oh, if he had only been 
there to settle it for her! To explain, to elucidate his 


ALAYNE AND LIFE 


ii 7 

own point of view in his precise and impressive accents! 
In her solitude she could almost see his long thin 
scholar's hands turning the pages, and tears swept down 
her cheeks in a storm, leaving them flushed and hot, so 
that she would have to go to the window, and press her 
face to the cool pane, or throw it open and lean out, 
gazing into the unfriendly street below. 

The book was published. It created a good impression, 
and reviewers were perhaps a little kinder to it because 
of the recent death of the author. It was praised for 
its modern liberality. But a few critics pointed out errors 
and contradictions, and Alayne, holding herself respon¬ 
sible for these, suffered great humiliation. She accused 
herself of laxness and stupidity. Her dear father’s book! 
She became so white that Mr. Cory was worried about 
her. At last Mrs. Cory and he persuaded her to share 
an apartment with a friend of theirs, Rosamund Trent, 
a commercial artist, a woman of fifty. 

Miss Trent was efficient, talkative, and nearly always 
good-humored. It was when Alayne joined Miss Trent 
that she settled down into tranquillity. She read count¬ 
less manuscripts, some of them very badly typed, and the 
literary editor of Cory and Parsons learned to rely on 
her judgment, especially in books other than fiction. In 
fiction her taste, formed by her parents, was perhaps too 
conventional, too fastidious. Many of the things she 
read in manuscript seemed horrid to her. And they had 
a disconcerting way of cropping up in her mind after¬ 
ward, like strange weeds that, even after they are up¬ 
rooted and thrown away, appear again in unexpected 
places. 

She would sit listening to Rosamund Trent’s good- 
humored chatter, her chin in her curled palm, her eyes 
fixed on Miss Trent’s face, yet not all of her was present 
in the room. Another Alayne, crying like a deserted 


n 8 JALNA 

child, was wandering through the little bungalow; wan¬ 
dering about the garden among the rhododendrons and 
the roses, where the grass was like moist green velvet, and 
not a dead leaf was allowed by the professor to lie un¬ 
disturbed; wandering, weeping over the links with the 
thin gray shadow of her father, turning to wave a hand 
to the watching mother in the window. 

Sometimes the other Alayne was different, not sad 
and lonely but wild and questioning. Had life nothing 
richer for her than this ? Reading, reading manuscripts, 
day in, day out, sitting at night with gaze bent on Miss 
Trent’s chattering face, or going to the Corys’ or some 
other house, meeting people who made no impression on 
her. Was she never going to have a real friend to whom 
she could confide everything—well, almost everything? 
Was she never — for the first time in her life she asked 
herself this question in grim earnest—was she never 
going to have a lover? 

Oh, she had had admirers — not many, for she had not 
encouraged them. If she went out with them she was 
sure to miss something delightful that was happening at 
home. If they came to the house they seldom fitted in 
with the scheme of things. Sexually she was one of those 
women who develop slowly; who might, under certain 
conditions, marry, rear a family, and never have the well- 
spring of her passions unbound. 

There had been one man who might almost have been 
called a lover, a colleague of her father’s, but several 
years younger. He had come to the house, first as her 
father’s friend, then more and more as hers. He had 
fitted into their serious discussions, even into their gaye- 
ties. Once he had gone to Europe with them. In Sor¬ 
rento, on a morning when the spring was breaking and 
they had been walking up a narrow pathway across a 
hill, filled with the wonder of that ecstatic awakening, he 


ALAYNE AND LIFE 


1 19 

had asked her to marry him. She had begged him to wait 
for his answer till they returned to America, for she was 
afraid that her delight was not in him but in Italy. 

They had been back in America only a month when 
her mother was taken ill. The next two months were 
passed in heart-piercing suspense and agony. Then, at 
the end, she found herself alone. Again her father’s 
friend, in old-fashioned phrasing, which she loved in 
books but which did not move her in real life, asked her 
to marry him. He loved her and he wanted to care for 
her. She knew that her father had approved of him, 
but her heart was drained empty, and its aching spaces 
desired no new occupant. 

When the manuscript of young Whiteoak’s book was 
given her to read, Alayne was in a mood of eager re¬ 
ceptivity to beauty. The beauty, the simplicity, the splen¬ 
did abandon of Eden’s lyrics filled her with a new joy. 
When the book appeared, she had an odd feeling of 
possession toward it. She rather hated seeing Miss 
Trent’s large plump hands caressing it, — “ Such a ducky 
little book, my dear!”—and she hated to hear her read 
from it, stressing the most striking phrases, sustaining the 
last word of each line with an upward lilt of her throaty 
voice — “ Sheer beauty, that bit, is n’t it, Alayne dear ? ” 
She felt ashamed of herself for grudging Miss Trent her 
pleasure in the book, but she undoubtedly did grudge it. 

She rather dreaded meeting Eden for fear he should be 
disappointing. Suppose he were short and thickset, with 
beady black eyes and a long upper lip. Suppose he had 
a hatchet face and wore horn-rimmed spectacles. 

Well, however he looked, his mind was beautiful. But 
she had quaked as she entered the reception room. 

When she saw him standing tall and fair, with his 
crest of golden hair, his sensitive features, his steady but 
rather wistful smile, she was trembling, almost overcome 


120 JALNA 

with relief. He seemed to carry some of the radiance of 
his poetry about his own person. Those brilliant blue 
eyes in that tanned face! Oh, she could not have borne it 
had he not been beautiful! 

It seemed as natural to her that they two should seek 
a quiet comer together, that he should, when the oppor¬ 
tunity offered, take her hands in his and press ecstatic 
kisses upon them, as that two drops of dew should melt 
into one, or two sweet chords blend. 

It seemed equally natural to her to say yes when, two 
weeks later, he asked her to marry him. 

He had not intended to ask her that. He realized in 
his heart that it was madness to ask her, unless they 
agreed to a long engagement, but the autumn night was 
studded with stars and heavy with the teasing scents of 
burning leaves and salt air. They were gliding slowly 
along an ocean driveway in Rosamund Trent’s car. 
Rosamund was slouching over the wheel, silent for once, 
and they two in the back seat alone, in a world apart. 
He could no more stop himself from asking her to 
marry him than he could help writing a poem that burned 
to be expressed. 

His love for her was a poem. Their life together 
would be an exquisite, enchanted poem, a continual in¬ 
spiration for him. He could not do without her. The 
thought of holding her intimately in his arms gave him 
the tender sadness of a love poem to be written. Yet 
he must not ask her to marry him. He must not and — 
he did. 

“ Alayne, my beautiful darling — will you marry me?” 

“Eden, Eden — ” She could scarcely speak, for the 
love now filling her heart that had been drained empty 
of love almost drowned her senses. “Yes — I will 
marry you if you want me. I want you with all my soul.” 


XI 

BELOVED, IT IS MORN 

“ I like your young poet immensely,” said Rosamund 
Trent. “ He must be a delightful lover. But, Alayne 
dear, — now you must not mind my saying this; I am 
so much older, — don’t you think it is rather reckless 
to plunge into matrimony without waiting to see how he 
gets on in the world? You are both such dears, but you 
are so inexperienced. Here are you, giving up a good 
position, and going to a country you know nothing about, 
arranging to spend some months with a family you have 
never seen — ” 

“His sister,” said Alayne patiently, “has written me 
a delightful letter. They have a big old house. She 
seems to want me. Even the dear grandmother sent me 
a message of welcome. Then I have a little money of 
my own; I shall not be quite dependent. And if it were 
ever necessary, I — ” 

“ Oh, my dear, I am sure it will be all right. But you 
are so precipitate. If you would only wait a little.” 

“ I have been waiting for Eden all these years! ” ex¬ 
claimed Alayne, flushing. “ I realize that now. Neither 
he nor I feel like wasting any of the precious time we 
might be together. After we are married I shall visit 
his people, and Eden will look about. If he cannot get 
into anything satisfactory that will leave him plenty of 
time in which to develop his talent, or if I do not like 
Canada, we shall come back to New York. I know he 
could have something with Mr. Cory in the publishing 
business, but — oh, I do not want him to do anything that 
will hamper him. I want him to live for his art.” 


122 JALNA 

Miss Trent made a little gesture of impatience. Then 
she made a large gesture of great affection, and gathered 
Alayne to her heart. 

“You two darlings!” she said. “I know it will be all 
right. And why waste time when you are young and 
beautiful! ” 

She realized that such were the glamour and wonder 
of Alayne’s feeling toward Eden that it was useless to 
reason with her. Alayne herself was conscious of such 
subtleties in her love for him that she felt at times be¬ 
wildered. He was a young god of the sun, a strong de¬ 
liverer from her prison of heartbreak; he was a fledgling 
genius; he was a stammering, sunburned, egotistical 
young Canadian with not too good an education; he 
was a blue-eyed, clinging-fingered child; he was a sud¬ 
denly wooden and undemonstrative young Britisher. An 
evening with him excited her so that she could not sleep 
after it. And as she spent every evening with him, she 
grew drowsy-eyed from lying awake thinking of him. 
The curves of her mouth became more tender, more 
yielding from those same thoughts. 

Eden had begun the letter to Meg telling her of his 
engagement in much trepidation. But as he wrote he 
gained confidence, and told of Alayne’s beauty, her en¬ 
dearing qualities, her influential friends who would be 
able to do so much for him in the publishing world. 
And she was independent — not an heiress, not the rich 
American girl of fiction; still, she would be a help, not a 
handicap to him. Meg was to believe that she was abso¬ 
lutely desirable. 

The family at Jalna, always credulous, with imagina¬ 
tions easily stirred, snatched with avidity at the bare 
suggestion of means. They settled it among themselves 
that Alayne was a rich girl, and that Eden for some 
reason wished to depreciate her wealth. 


BELOVED, IT IS MORN 123 

“ He’s afraid some of us will want to borrow a few 
bucks,” sneered Piers. 

“ He’d have never been such a fool as to marry if the 
girl had not had lots of brass,” growled Nicholas. 

“ He was bound to attract some cultivated rich woman 
with his talents, his looks, and his lovely manners,” said 
Meg, her smile of ineffable calm sweetness curving her 
lips. “ I shall be very nice to her. Who knows, she may 
do something for the younger boys. American women 
are noted for their generosity. Wakefield is delicate 
and he’s very attractive. Finch is—” 

“ Neither delicate nor attractive,” put in Renny, grin¬ 
ning, and Finch, who was wrestling in a corner with his 
Latin, blushed a deep pink, and gave a snort of mingled 
amusement and embarrassment. 

Grandmother shouted: “When is she coming? I must 
wear my cream-colored cap with the purple ribbons.” 

Piers said: “ Eden always was an impulsive fool. I ’ll 
bet he’s making a fool marriage.” He rather hoped 
that Eden was, for he found it hard to endure the thought 
of Eden’s making a marriage which would be welcomed 
by the whole family while he himself was continually 
forced to feel that he had made a mess of his life. 

Meg wrote her letter to Alayne, inviting her to come 
to Jalna for as long as she liked. She was to consider 
Jalna her home. All the family were so happy in dear 
Eden’s happiness. Dear Grandmother sent her love. 
(“Have you got that down, Meggie? That I send my 
love? Underline it. No mistake.”) Alayne was deeply 
touched by this letter. 

What delight she took in showing New York to her 
lover! Theatres, museums, cathedrals, shops, and queer 
little tearooms. Down dingy steps they went, she feeling 
thrilled because he was thrilled, into dim rooms, lighted 
by candles, where waitresses wore smocks or other dis- 


124 JALNA 

tinctive regalia, and the places bore such names as The 
Pepper Pot, The Samovar, The Mad Hatter, or The Pig 
and Whistle. Together they stood, as the evening fell, 
looking down from the twentieth story of a pale, column¬ 
like building into the street below, where the electric 
signs became a chain of burning jewels, out across the 
Hudson and the harbor with its glittering ferryboats, or, 
raising their happy eyes, saw all the dim towers flower 
into fairy brightness. 

She took him up the Hudson to visit her two aunts, the 
sisters of her father, who lived in a house with a pinkish 
roof overlooking the river. They were delighted with 
Alayne’s young Canadian. He had such an easy, pleasant 
voice, he was so charmingly deferential to them. Even 
while they regretted that Alayne was going away, for a 
time at least, they were exhilarated, elated by her bliss. 
They took Eden to their hearts, and, seated in their aus¬ 
terely perfect little living room, they asked him innumer¬ 
able questions about his family. He, lounging much less 
than when in Alayne’s apartment, looked with curiosity 
into the clear eyes of those two elderly women, wonder¬ 
ing whether they had always been so earnest, so elegantly 
poised, so essentially well behaved. Yes, he thought so. 
He pictured them sitting in high-chairs, investigating 
rubber dolls and rattles with the selfsame expression. 
They were inclined to stoutness. Their faces were just 
pleasantly lined. Their graying hair was rolled back 
from their foreheads with well-groomed precision. Their 
dresses of soft neutral tints blended perfectly with the 
delicate self-tones of the wall paper and hangings. 
Groups of little black framed prints and etchings of the 
doorways of European cathedrals, old bridges, or quiet 
landscapes gave distinction to the walls. Yet, in spite of 
the studied austerity, Eden felt that these two elderly 
ladies were incurably romantic. He was nervous lest he 


BELOVED, IT IS MORN 125 

should say something to shatter the brittle atmosphere 
in which they had their being. He tried, when ques¬ 
tioned, to present the family at Jalna in as neutral tints 
as possible. But it was difficult. He realized for the 
first time that they were high-colored and flamboyant. 

Miss Harriet was asking: — 

“ Let me see, there are six of you, are n’t there ? How 
very interesting. Just imagine Alayne having brothers 
and sisters, Helen. She used always to be praying for 
them when she was little, didn’t you, Alayne?” 

“ There is only one sister,” said Eden. 

“She wrote Alayne such a kind letter,” murmured 
Miss Helen. 

Miss Harriet proceeded: “And your older brother 
went through all the terrors of the War, did he not?” 

“Yes, he was through the War,” replied Eden, and he 
thought of Renny’s rich vocabulary. 

“ And the brother next to you is married, Alayne tells 
us. I do hope hrs wife and Alayne will be friends. Is 
she about Alayne’s age? Have you known her long?” 

“ She is seventeen. I ’ve known her all my life. She’s 
the daughter of a neighbor.” His mind flew for an 
instant to the reception given to Piers and Pheasant when 
they returned to Jalna after their marriage. He re¬ 
membered the way poor young Pheasant had howled, and 
Piers had stood holding his bleeding ear. 

“ I trust Alayne and she will be congenial. Then there 
are the two younger brothers. Tell us about them.” 

“Well, Finch is rather a — oh, he’s just at the hobble¬ 
dehoy period, Miss Archer. We can hardly tell what 
he ’ll be. At present he’s immersed in his studies. Wake 
is a pretty little chap. You’d quite like him. He is too 
delicate to go to school, and has all his lessons with our 
rector. I’m afraid he’s very indolent, but he’s an en¬ 
gaging young scamp.” 


126 JALNA 

“ I am sure Alayne will love him. And she will have 
uncles, too. I am glad there are no aunts. Yes, Alayne, 
we were saying only this morning we are glad there are 
no aunts. We really want no auntly opposition in loving 
you.” 

“ Then,” put in Miss Helen, “ there is Eden’s remark¬ 
able grandmother. Ninety-nine, did you say, Eden? And 
all her faculties almost unimpaired. It is truly won¬ 
derful.” 

“Yes, a regular old — yes, an amazing old lady, 
Grandmother is.” And he suddenly saw her grinning 
at him, the graceless ancient, with her cap askew, Boney 
perched on her shoulder, rapping out obscene Hindu oaths 
in his raucous voice. He groaned inwardly and won¬ 
dered what Alayne would think of his family. 

He had written asking Renny to be best man for him. 
Renny had replied: “ I have neither the time, the togs, 
nor the tin for such a bust-up. But I enclose a check for 
my wedding present to you, which will help to make up 
for my absence. I am glad Miss Archer has money. 
Otherwise I should think you insane to tie yourself up 
at this point in your career, when you seem to be going 
in several directions at once and arriving nowhere. How¬ 
ever, good luck to you and my very best regards to the 
lady. Your aff. bro. Renny.” 

The check was sufficient to pay for the honeymoon trip 
and to take them home to Jalna. Eden, with his head 
among the stars, thanked God for that. 

They were married in the austerely perfect living 
room of Alayne’s aunts’ house on the Hudson. Late 
roses of so misty a pink that they were almost mauve, 
and asters of so uncertain a mauve that they were almost 
pink, blended with the pastel shades worn by the tremu¬ 
lously happy aunts. A Presbyterian minister united them, 
for the Misses Archer were of that denomination. They 


BELOVED, IT IS MORN 127 

had felt it keenly when their brother had embraced Uni¬ 
tarian doctrines, though they had never reproached him 
for his change of faith. Intellectually Alayne was satis¬ 
fied with Unitarianism, but she had sometimes wished that 
the faith in which she had been reared were more pic¬ 
turesque even though less intellectual. In truth, reli¬ 
gious speculation had played a very small part in her 
life, and when bereavement came to her she found little 
consolation in it. With a certain sad whimsicality, she 
liked at times to picture the spirit of her father meticu¬ 
lously going over the golf course, stopping now and again 
to wave a ghostly hand to the spirit of her mother peer¬ 
ing from an upper window of the stucco bungalow. 

She thought of them a good deal on this her wedding 
day. They would have been so happy in her happiness. 
They would have loved Eden. He looked so radiant, sun¬ 
burned, and confident as he smiled down at her that she 
became radiant and confident too. 

The Corys, Rosamund Trent, and the other friends 
at the wedding repast thought and said that they had 
never seen a lovelier couple. 

As they motored to New York to take their train Eden 
said: — 

“ Darling, I have never met so many well-behaved 
people in my life. Darling, let us be wild and half-mad 
and delirious with joy! I’m tired of being good.” 

She hugged him to her. She loved him intensely, and 
she longed with great fervor to experience life. 


XII 

WELCOME AGAIN TO JALNA 

Wakefield slept late that morning, just when he had 
intended to be about early. When he opened his eyes he 
found that Renny’s head was not on the pillow next his 
as usual. He was not even dressing. He was gone, and 
Wake had the bed and the room to himself. He slept 
with Renny because he sometimes had a “bad turn” in 
the night and it was to his eldest brother he clung at such 
times. 

He spread-eagled himself on the bed, taking up all 
the room he could, and lay luxuriously a few minutes, 
rejoicing in the fact that he did not have to go to Mr. 
Fennel’s for lessons on this day, because it had been 
proclaimed a holiday by Grandmother. It was the day 
on which Eden and his bride were expected to arrive at 
Jalna. Their train was to reach the city at nine that 
morning and Piers had already motored to fetch them 
the twenty-five miles to Jalna, where a great dinner was 
already in preparation. 

The loud wheezing that preceded the striking of the 
grandfather’s clock in the upstairs hall now began. 
Wake listened. After what seemed a longer wheeze 
than usual the clock struck nine. The train carrying the 
bride and groom must at this moment be arriving at the 
station. Wakefield had seen pictures of wedding parties, 
and he had a vision of Eden traveling in a top hat and 
long-tailed coat with a white flower in his buttonhole, 
seated beside his bride, whose face showed but faintly 
through a voluminous veil and who carried an im- 


WELCOME AGAIN TO JALNA 129 

mense bouquet of orange blossoms. He did wish that 
Meg had allowed him to go in the car to meet them. It 
seemed too bad that such a lovely show should be wasted 
on Piers, who had not seemed at all keen about meeting 
them. 

Wake thought that he had better give his rabbit 
hutches a thorough cleaning, for probably one of the 
first things the bride would wish to inspect would be his 
rabbits. It would be some time before they arrived, for 
they were to have breakfast in town. He began to kick 
the bedclothes from him. He kicked them with all his 
might till he had nothing over him, then he lay quite 
still a moment, his small dark face turned impassively 
toward the ceiling, before he leaped out of bed and ran 
to the window. 

It was a day of thick yellow autumn sunshine. A 
circular bed of nasturtiums around two old cedar trees 
burned like a slow fire. The lawn still had a film of 
heavy dew drawn across it, and a procession of bronze 
turkeys, led by the red-faced old cock, left a dark trail 
where their feet had brushed it. 

“ Gobble, gobble, gobble,” came from the cock, and 
his wattles turned from red to purple. He turned and 
faced his hens and wheeled before them, dropping his 
wings with a metallic sound. 

Wake shouted from the window: “Gobble, gobble, 
gobble! Get off the lawn! I say, get off the lawn! ” 

“ Clang, clang, clang,” resounded the gobbler’s note 
of anger, and the hens made plaintive piping sounds. 

“I suppose you think,” retorted Wakefield, “that 
you’re fifteen brides and a groom. Well, you’re not. 
You ’re turkeys; and you ’ll be eaten first thing you know. 
The real bride and groom will eat you, so there! ” 

“Gobble, gobble, gobble.” 

The burnished procession passed into the grape arbor. 


1 3 o JALNA 

Between purple bunches of grapes, Wake could see the 
shine of plumage, the flame of tossing wattles. 

It was a lovely morning! He tore off his pyjamas and, 
stark naked, ran round and round the room. He stopped 
breathless before the washstand, where the brimming 
basin foaming with shaving lather showed how com¬ 
plete had been Renny’s preparations for the bride and 
groom. 

Wakefield took up the shaving soap and the shaving 
brush, and immersed the brush in the basin. He made a 
quantity of fine, fluffy, and altogether delightful lather. 
First he decorated his face, then produced a nice epau¬ 
lette for each shoulder. Then he made a collar for his 
round brown neck. Next his two little nipples attracted 
him. He adorned them as if with the filling from two 
cream puffs. In order he decorated all the more promi¬ 
nent features of his small person. By twisting about before 
the mirror he managed to do even his back. It took most 
of the shaving stick, but the effect when his toilet was 
completed was worth all the trouble. He stood in rapt 
admiration before the glass, astonished at what a little 
ingenuity and a lot of lather could do. He pictured him¬ 
self receiving the bride and groom in this simple yet 
effective attire. He was sure that Alayne would think it 
worth while traveling all the way from New York to see 
a sight like this. 

He was lost in reverie when a smothered scream dis¬ 
turbed him. It was uttered by Mrs. Wragge, who stood 
in the doorway, one hand clapped to her mouth, the other 
carrying a slop pail. 

“ My Gawd! ” she cried. “ Wot a norrible sight! Ow, 
wot a turn it give me! My Mart’s doawn in my boots 
and my stumick’s in the top of my ’ead.” 

She was too funny standing there, red-faced and open- 
mouthed. Wakefield could not refrain from doing some- 


WELCOME AGAIN TO JALNA 131 

thing to her. He danced toward her and, before she 
realized the import of the brandished shaving brush, she 
had a snowy meringue of lather fairly between the eyes 
and down the bridge of the nose. With a scream, this 
time unsmothered, Mrs. Wragge dropped the pail of 
slops and pawed blindly at her ornate face. Meg, giving 
a last satisfied examination to Eden’s room, which had 
been prepared for the bridal pair, hurried toward the 
sounds of distress from her handmaiden, and, catching 
the little boy by the ankle just as he was disappearing 
under the big four-poster, dragged him forth and ad¬ 
ministered three sharp slaps. 

“There,” she said, “and there, and there! As though 
I hadn’t enough to do!” 

When Wakefield descended the stairs half an hour 
later, his expression was somewhat subdued but he car¬ 
ried himself with dignity, and he was conscious of look¬ 
ing extremely well in his best Norfolk suit and a snowy 
Eton collar. He had begged for just a little hair cream 
to make his hair lie flat, but Meg liked it fluffy, and he 
had not wished to insist on anything on a morning when 
she was already somewhat harassed. 

As he passed the door of his grandmother’s room, he 
could hear her saying in a cajoling tone to Boney: “ Say 
‘Alayne’ now, Boney. ‘Pretty Alayne.’ Say ‘Alayne.’ 
Say ‘ Hail Columbia.’ ” Then her voice was drowned by 
the raucous tones of Boney uttering a few choice Hindu 
curses. 

Wakefield smiled and entered the dining room. The 
table was cleared, but a tray was laid on a small table in 
a corner. Bread and butter, marmalade, milk. He knew 
that if he rang the bell Rags would bring him a dish of 
porridge from the kitchen. It was an old silver bell in 
the shape of a little fat lady. He loved it, and handled it 


132 JALNA 

caressingly a moment before ringing it long and clearly. 

He went to the head of the basement stairs and lis¬ 
tened. He could hear Rags rattling things on the stove. 
He heard a saucepan being scraped. Nasty, sticky, 
dried-up old porridge! He heard Rags’s step on the 
brick floor approaching the stairway. Lightly he glided 
to the clothes cupboard and hid himself inside the door, 
just peeping through a narrow crack while Rags mounted 
the stairs and disappeared into the dining room, a cig¬ 
arette stuck between his pale lips and the plate of por¬ 
ridge tilted at a precarious angle. Wakefield reflected 
without bitterness that Rags would not have dared to 
wait on any other member of the family with such a lack 
of decorum. But he smiled slyly as he glided down the 
stairs into the basement, leaving Rags and the porridge 
in the dining room alone. 

The kitchen was an immense room with a great unused 
fireplace and a coal range that was always in use. The 
table and dressers were so heavy that they were never 
moved, and one wall was covered by an oak rack filled 
with platters from successive Whiteoak dinner sets. 
Many of these would have given delight to a collector, 
but the glazing on all was disfigured by innumerable little 
cracks from being placed in ovens far too hot. 

Wakefield gave one longing look into the pantry. How 
he would have liked to forage for his breakfast among 
those richly laden shelves! He saw two fat fowls 
trussed up in a roasting pan ready to put into the oven, 
and a huge boiled ham, and a brace of plum tarts. But 
he dared not. Rags would be returning at any moment. 
On the kitchen table he found a plate of cold toast and 
a saucer of anchovy paste. Taking a slice of toast and 
the anchovy paste, he trotted out of the kitchen and along 
the brick passage into the coal cellar. He heard Rags 
clattering down the kitchen stairs, muttering as he came. 


WELCOME AGAIN TO JALNA 133 

A window in the coal cellar stood open, and mounted on 
an empty box he found he could easily put his breakfast 
out on the ground and climb out after it. 

He was sorry to see how black his hands and bare 
knees had become in the operation. He scrubbed them 
with his clean handkerchief, but the only result was that 
the handkerchief became black. He did not like to return 
such a black rag to the pocket of his best suit, so he 
pushed it carefully out of sight in a crack just under the 
sill of the cellar window. Some little mouse, he thought, 
would be glad to find it and make a nice little nest of it. 

He carried his toast and anchovy paste to the old 
carriage house, and sought a favorite retreat of his. This 
was a ponderous closed carriage that Grandfather White- 
oak had sent to England for when he and Grandmother 
had first built Jalna. It had a great shell-like body, 
massive lamps, and a high seat for the coachman. It 
must have been a splendid sight to see them driving out. 
It had not been used for many years. Wakefield slumped 
on the sagging seat, eating his toast and anchovy paste 
with unhurried enjoyment. The fowls clucking and 
scratching in the straw made a soothing accompaniment 
to his thoughts. 

“Now, if I had my way I’d meet the brideangroom 
with this beautiful carriage, drawn by four white horses. 
I’d have the wheels all done up in wreaths of roses like 
the pictures of carnivals in California. And a big bunch 
of roses for her to carry, and a trumpeter sitting on the 
seat beside the coachman tooting a trumpet. And a 
pretty little dwarf hanging on behind, with a little silver 
whistle to blow when the trumpeter stopped tooting. 
What a happy brideangroom they’d be! ” 

“Brideangroom. . . . Brideangroom.” He liked the 
pleasant way those words ran together. Still, he must 
not linger here too long or he would not be on hand to 


134 JALNA 

welcome them. He decided that there was no time left 
for cleaning the rabbit hutches. He would go across the 
meadow to the road, and wait by the church corner. 
Then he would have a chance to meet them before the 
rest of the family. He clambered out of the carriage, a 
cobweb clinging to his hair and a black smudge across 
his cheek. He set the saucer containing the remainder 
of the anchovy on the floor and watched five hens leap 
simultaneously upon it, a tangle of wings and squawks, 
while a rooster side-stepped about the scrimmage, watch¬ 
ing his wives with a distracted yellow eye. 

He trotted across the meadow, climbed the fence, and 
gained the road. He stopped long enough to pass the 
time of day with Chalk, the blacksmith, and was almost 
by the Wigle’s cottage when Muriel accosted him from 
the gate: — 

“ I’ve got ten thents.” 

He hesitated, looking at the little girl over his shoulder. 
“ Have you? Where did you get it?” he asked with polite 
interest. 

“ It ’th a birthday prethent. I’m thaving up to buy a 
dolly.” 

Wake went to her and said kindly: “Look here, 
Muriel, you’re awfully silly if you do that. A doll costs 
a dollar or more, and if you save ten cents every single 
birthday it’d be years and years before you’d have 
enough to buy one. By that time you’d be too old to play 
with it. Better come to Mrs. Brawn’s now and buy 
yourself a chocolate bar. I ’ll buy you a bottle of cream 
soda to drink with it.” 

“ I don’t like cream thoda,” replied Muriel, petulantly. 
She opened her small hot palm and examined the coin 
lying on it. 

Wakefield bent over it. “Why, it’s a Yankee dime!” 
he exclaimed. “ Goodness, Muriel, you’d better hurry 


WELCOME AGAIN TO JALNA 135 

up and spend it, because likely as not it ’ll be no good by 
next week.” 

Mrs. Wigle put her head out of the window of the 
cottage. 

“When’s your brother goin’ to mend my roof?” she 
demanded. “ It’s leakin’ like all possessed.” 

“Oh, he was just speaking about that this morning, 
Mrs. Wigle. He says that just as soon as he gets this 
wedding reception off his hands, he’s going to attend to 
your roof.” 

“Well, I hope he will,” she grumbled, and withdrew 
her head. 

“Come along now, Muriel,” said Wake. “I haven’t 
much time to spare, but I ’ll go with you to Mrs. Brawn’s 
so’s you won’t feel shy.” 

He took her hand and the little girl trotted beside him 
with a rather dazed expression. They presented them¬ 
selves before Mrs. Brawn’s counter. 

“Well, Master Whiteoak,” she said, “I hope you’ve 
come to pay your account.” 

“I’m afraid not this morning,” replied Wake. 
“ We ’re so very busy getting ready for the brideangroom 
that I forgot. But Muriel here wants a bottle of cream 
soda and a chocolate bar. It’s her birthday, you see.” 

They sat on the step outside the shop with the re¬ 
freshments, Wakefield sucking the sickly drink placidly 
through a straw, Muriel nibbling the chocolate. 

“ Have a pull, Muriel,” he offered. 

“ Don’t like it,” she said. “ You have a bite of choco¬ 
late.” She held the bar to his lips, and so they contentedly 
ate it, bite about. 

How happy he was! “Brideangroom. . . . Bridean¬ 
groom.” The pleasant words went singing through his 
head. A spiral of wood smoke ^curled upward from a 
mound of burning leaves in a yard across the street. A 


136 JALNA 

hen and her half-grown brood scratched blithely in the 
middle of the road. Muriel was gazing into his face 
with slavish admiration. 

A car was coming. Their own car. He recognized its 
peculiar hiccoughing squeaks. Hastily he drained the last 
drops and pushed the bottle into Muriel’s hands. 

“You may return the bottle, Muriel,” he said. “I 
must go to meet the brideangroom.” 

The car was in sight. He espied a clump of Michael¬ 
mas daisies growing by the side of the road, and he 
swiftly ran and plucked a long feathery spray. It was 
rather dusty, but still very pretty, and he stood clasping 
it, with an expectant smile on his face, as the car ap¬ 
proached. Piers, who was driving, would have gone by 
and left him standing there, but Eden sharply told him 
to stop, and Alayne leaned forward full of eager curiosity. 

Wakefield mounted the running board and held the 
Michaelmas daisies out to her. 

“Welcome to Jalna,” he said. 


XIII 

INSIDE THE GATES OF JALNA 

Eden had not been sorry to see his little brother waiting 
at the roadside with daisies for Alayne. The meeting 
with Piers, the breakfast in his company at the Queen’s, 
and the subsequent drive home had not been altogether 
satisfactory. Alayne had been tired and unusually quiet, 
Piers actually taciturn. Eden resented this taciturnity 
because he remembered having been very decent to Piers 
and Pheasant on the occasion of their humiliating return 
to Jalna. He had been the first, and the only one except 
Renny, to stand up for them. He regarded his brother’s 
solid back and strong sunburned neck with growing irri¬ 
tation as the car sped along the lake shore road. 

Alayne gazed out over the misty blue expanse of the 
lake with a feeling approaching sadness. This sea that 
was not a sea, this land that was not her land, this new 
brother with the unfriendly blue eyes and the sulky 
mouth, she must get used to them all. They were to be 
hers. Ruth — “amid the alien corn.” 

But she should not feel that they were alien. It was a 
lovely land. The language was her own. Even this new 
brother was probably only rather shy. She wished that 
Eden had told her more about his family. There were 
so many of them. She went over their names in her mind 
to prepare herself for the meeting. A tiny shudder of 
apprehension ran through her nerves. She put her hand 
on Eden’s and gripped his fingers. 

“Cheer up, old dear,” he said. “We’ll soon be 
there.” 

They had left the lake shore and were running smoothly 


138 JALNA 

over a curving road. A quaint old church, perched on a 
wooded knoll, rose before them. Then a diminutive 
shop, two children staring, Eden’s voice saying, “ There’s 
young Wake, Piers!” And a little boy on the running 
board, pushing flowers into her hand. 

“Welcome to Jalna,” he said, in a sweet treble, “and 
I thought maybe you’d like these Michaelmas daisies. 
I’ve been waiting ever so long.” 

“ Hop in,” commanded Eden, opening the door. 

He hopped in, and squeezed his slender body between 
theirs on the seat. Piers had not looked round. Now he 
started the car with a jerk. 

Wakefield raised his eyes to Alayne’s face and scru¬ 
tinized her closely. “ What eyelashes! ” she thought. 
“What a darling!” His little body pressed against her 
seemed the most delightful and pathetic thing. Oh, she 
could love this little brother. And he was delicate, too. 
Not strong enough to go to school. She would play with 
him, help to teach him. They smiled at each other. She 
looked across his head at Eden and formed the words 
“A darling” with smiling lips. 

“How is everyone at home?” asked Eden. 

“Nicely, thank you,” said Wakefield, cheerfully. 
“ Granny has had a little cough, and Boney imitates her. 
Uncle Ernest’s nose is rather pink from hay fever. 
Uncle Nick’s gout is better. Meggie eats very little, but 
she is getting fatter. Piers took the first prize with his 
bull at the Durham show. It wore the blue ribbon all the 
way home. Finch came out fifty-second in his Greek 
exam. I can’t think of any news about Pheasant and 
Rags and Mrs. Wragge except that they’re there. I 
hope you like your flowers, Alayne. I should have got 
more, but I saw your car coming just as I was begin¬ 
ning to gather them.” 

“They are beautiful,” said Alayne, holding them to 


INSIDE THE GATES OF JALNA 139 

her face, and Wakefield close to her side. “ I am so very 
glad you came to meet me.” 

In truth she was very glad. It seemed easier to meet 
the family with the little boy by her side. Her cheeks 
flushed a pretty pink, and she craned her neck eagerly to 
catch a first glimpse of the house as they passed between 
the stalwart spruces along the drive. 

Jalna looked very mellow in the golden sunlight, draped 
in its mantle of reddening Virginia creeper and sur¬ 
rounded by freshly clipped lawns. One of Wake’s rab¬ 
bits was hopping about, and Renny’s two clumber spaniels 
were stretched on the steps. A pear tree near the house 
had dropped its fruit on the grass, where it lay richly 
yellow, giving to the eyes of a town dweller an air of 
negligent well-being to the scene. Alayne thought that 
Jalna had something of the appearance of an old mano¬ 
rial farmhouse, set among its lawns and orchards. The 
spaniels lazily beat their plumed tails on the step, too 
indolent to rise. 

“Renny’s dogs,” commented Eden, pushing one of 
them out of the way with his foot that Alayne might 
pass. “You’ll have to get used to animals. You’ll find 
them all over the place.” 

“ That will not be hard. I have always wanted pets.” 
She bent to stroke one of the silken heads. 

Eden looked down at her curiously. How would she 
and his family get on, he wondered. Now that he had 
brought her home he realized suddenly that she was alien 
to his family. He had a disconcerting sensation of sur¬ 
prise at finding himself married. After all, he was not 
so elated as he had expected to be when Rags opened the 
door and smiled a self-conscious welcome. 

Rags was always self-conscious when he wore his 
livery. It consisted of a shiny black suit with trousers 
very tight for him and a coat a size too large, a stiff 



JALNA 

white collar, and a greenish-black bow tie. His ash- 
blond hair was clipped with convictlike closeness, his 
pallid face showed a cut he had given himself when 
shaving. His air had something of the secretive smirk 
of an undertaker. 

“Welcome ’ome, Mr. Eden,” he said, sadly. “Wel¬ 
come ’ome, sir.” 

“Thanks, Rags. Alayne, this is Wragge, our — ” 
Eden hesitated, trying to decide how Mr. Wragge should 
be described, and continued, “our factotum.” 

“ Welcome 'ome, Mrs. Whiteoak,” said Rags, with his 
curiously deprecating yet impudent glance. It said to 
Eden silently but unmistakably: “ Ow, you may fool the 
family, young man, but you can’t fool me. You ’aven’t 
married a heiress. And ’ow we ’re to put up with another 
young woman ’ere Gawd only knows.” 

Alayne thanked him, and at the same moment the door 
of the living room was opened and Meg Whiteoak ap¬ 
peared on the threshold. She threw her arms about 
Eden’s neck and kissed him with passionate tenderness. 
Then she turned to Alayne, her lips, with their prettily 
curved corners, parted in a gentle smile. 

“So this is Alayne. I hope you will like us all, my 
dear. We ’re so happy to have you.” 

Alayne found herself enfolded in a warm plump em¬ 
brace. She thought it was no wonder the brothers 
adored their sister, — Eden had told her they did,— 
and she felt prepared to make a sister, a confidante, of 
her. How delightful! A real sister. She held tightly 
to Meg’s hand as they went into the living room where 
more of the family had assembled. 

It was so warm that even the low flameless fire seemed 
too much; none of the windows were open. Slanting 
bars of sunlight penetrating between the slats of the 
inside shutters converged at one point, the chair where 


INSIDE THE GATES OF JALNA 141 

old Mrs. Whiteoak sat. Like fiery fingers they seemed 
to point her out as the most significant presence in the 
room. Yet she was indulging in one of her unpremedi¬ 
tated naps. Her head, topped by a large purple cap with 
pink rosettes, had sunk forward so that the only part of 
her face visible was her heavy jaw and row of too per¬ 
fect under teeth. She wore a voluminous tea gown of 
purple velvet, and her shapely hands clasping the gold 
top of her ebony stick were heavy with rings worn for 
the occasion. A steady bubbling snore escaped her. The 
two elderly men came forward, Nicholas frowning be¬ 
cause of the painful effort of rising, but enfolding 
Alayne’s hand in a warm grasp. They greeted her in 
mellow whispers, Ernest excusing their mamma’s mo¬ 
mentary oblivion. 

“She must have these little naps. They refresh her. 
Keep her going.” 

Wakefield, who stood gazing into his grandmother’s 
face, remarked: “Yes. She winds herself up, rather 
like a clock, you know. You can hear her doing it, can’t 
you ? B-z-z-z-z — ’ ’ 

Meg smiled at Alayne. “ He thinks of everything,” she 
said. “ His mind is never still.” 

“He ought to be more respectful in speaking of his 
grandmamma,” rebuked Ernest. “Don’t you think so, 
Alayne ? ” 

Nicholas put his arm about the child. “She’d prob¬ 
ably be highly amused by the comparison, and talk of 
nothing else for an hour.” He turned with his sardonic 
smile to Alayne. “ She’s very bright, you know. She 
can drown us all out when she — ” 

“ Begins to strike,” put in Wake, carrying on the clock 
simile. Nicholas rumpled the boy’s hair. 

“ We had better sit down,” said Meg, “ till she wakens 
and has a little talk with Alayne. Then I ’ll take you up 


142 JALNA 

to your room, my dear. You must be tired after the 
journey. And hungry, too. Well, we ’re going to have 
an early dinner.” 

“Chicken and plum tart! Chicken and plum tart!” 
exploded Wakefield, and old Mrs. Whiteoak stirred in her 
sleep. 

Uncle Nicholas covered the child’s face with his 
hand, and the family’s gaze was fixed expectantly on 
the old lady. After a moment’s contortion, however, her 
face resumed the calm of peaceful slumber; everyone 
sat down, and conversation was carried on in hushed 
tones. 

Alayne felt as though she were in a dream. The room, 
the furniture, the people were so different from those to 
which she was accustomed that their strangeness made 
even Eden seem suddenly remote. She wondered wist¬ 
fully whether it would take her long to get used to them. 
Yet in looking at the faces about her she found that each 
had a distinctive attraction for her. Or perhaps it was 
fascination. Certainly there was nothing attractive about 
the grandmother unless it were the bizarre strength of 
her personality. 

“I lived in London a good many years,” mumbled 
Uncle Nicholas, “but I don’t know much about New 
York. I visited it once in the nineties, but I suppose it 
has changed a lot since then.” 

“Yes, I think you would find it very changed. It is 
changing constantly.” 

Uncle Ernest whispered: “I sailed from there once 
for England. I just missed seeing a murder.” 

“ Oh, Uncle Ernest, I wish you’d seen it! ” exclaimed 
Wakefield, bouncing up and down on the padded arm of 
his sister’s chair. 

“Hush, Wake,” said Meg, giving his thigh a little 
slap. “ I’m very glad he did n’t see it. It would have 


INSIDE THE GATES OF JALNA 143 

upset him terribly. Isn’t it a pity you have so many 
murders there ? And lynchings, and all ? ” 

“They don’t have lynchings in New York, Meggie,” 
corrected Uncle Ernest. 

“ Oh, I forgot. It’s Chicago, is n’t it ? ” 

Eden spoke for almost the first time. “ Never met so 
many orderly people in my life as I met in New York.” 

“ How nice,” said Meg. “ I do like order, but I find 
it so hard to keep, with servants’ wages high, and so 
many boys about, and Granny requiring a good deal of 
waiting on.” 

The sound of her own name must have penetrated Mrs. 
Whiteoak’s consciousness. She wobbled a moment as 
though she were about to fall, then righted herself and 
raised her still handsome, chiseled nose from its hori¬ 
zontal position and looked about. Her eyes, blurred by 
sleep, did not at once perceive Alayne. 

“ Dinner,” she observed. “ I want my dinner.” 

“Here are Eden and Alayne,” said Ernest, bending 
over her. 

“Better come over to her,” suggested Nicholas. 

“ She will be so glad,” said Meg. 

Eden took Alayne’s hand and led her to his grand¬ 
mother. The old lady peered at them unseeingly for 
a moment; then her gaze brightened. She clutched 
Eden to her and gave him a loud, hearty kiss. 

“Eden,” she said. “Well, well, so you’re back. 
Where’s your bride ? ” 

Eden put Alayne forward, and she was enfolded in an 
embrace of surprising strength. Sharp bristles scratched 
her cheek, and a kiss was planted on her mouth. 

“ Pretty thing,” said Grandmother, holding her off to 
look at her. “You’re a very pretty thing. I’m glad 
you’ve come. Where’s Boney, now?” She released 
Alayne and looked around sharply for the parrot. At 


144 JALNA 

the sound of his name he flapped heavily from his ring 
perch to her shoulder. She stroked his bright plumage 
with her jeweled hand. 

“Say ‘Alayne,’ ” she adjured him. “Say ‘Pretty 
Alayne.’ Come, now, there’s a darling boy!” 

Boney, casting a malevolent look on Alayne with one 
topaz eye, for the other was tight shut, burst into a string 
of curses. 

“ Kutni! Kutni! Kutni! ” he screamed. “ Shaitan 
ke khatla! Kambakht!” 

Grandmother thumped her stick loudly on the floor. 
“ Silence! ” she thundered. “ I won’t have it. Stop him, 
Nick. Stop him!” 

“He’ll bite me,” objected Nicholas. 

“ I don’t care if he does. Stop him! ” 

“ Stop him yourself, Mamma.” 

“Boney, Boney, don’t be so naughty. Say ‘Pretty 
Alayne.’ Come, now.” 

Boney rocked himself on her shoulder in a paroxysm 
of rage. “Paji! Paji! Kuzabusth! Iflatoon! Ifla- 
toon!” He glared into his mistress’s face, their two 
hooked beaks almost touching, his scarlet and green 
plumage, her purple and pink finery, blazing in the slant¬ 
ing sun rays. 

“Please don’t trouble,” said Alayne, soothingly. “I 
think he is very beautiful, and he probably does not dis¬ 
like me as much as he pretends.” 

“What’s she say?” demanded the old lady, looking 
up at her sons. It was always difficult for her to under¬ 
stand a stranger, though her hearing was excellent, and 
Alayne’s slow and somewhat precise enunciation was less 
clear to her than Nicholas’s rumbling tones or Ernest’s 
soft mumble. 

“ She says Boney is beautiful,” said Nicholas, too in¬ 
dolent to repeat the entire sentence. 


INSIDE THE GATES OF JALNA 145 

Grandmother grinned, very well pleased. “Aye, he’s 
beautiful. A handsome bird, but a bit of a devil. I 
brought him all the way from India seventy-three years 
ago. A game old bird, eh? Sailing vessels then, my 
dear. I nearly died. And the ayah did die. They put 
her overboard. But I was too sick to care. My baby 
Augusta nearly died, poor brat, and my dear husband, 
Captain Philip Whiteoak, had his hands full. You’ll see 
his portrait in the dining room. The handsomest officer 
in India. I could hold my own for looks, too. Would 
you think I’d ever been a beauty, eh ? ” 

“ I think you are very handsome now,” replied 
Alayne, speaking with great distinctness. “Your nose 
is really — ” 

“What’s she say?” cried Grandmother. 

Ernest murmured: “ She says your nose — ” 

“Ha, ha, my nose is still a beauty, eh? Yes, my de^r, 
it’s a good nose. A Court nose. None of your re¬ 
trousse, surprised-looking noses. Nothing on God’s 
earth could surprise my nose. None of your pinched, 
sniffing, cold-in-the-head noses, either. A good reliable 
nose. A Court nose.” She rubbed it triumphantly. 

“You’ve a nice-looking nose, yourself,” she con¬ 
tinued. “You and Eden make a pretty pair. But he’s 
no Court. Nor a Whiteoak. He looks like his poor 
pretty fibbertigibbet mother.” 

Alayne, shocked, looked indignantly toward Eden, but 
he wore only an expression of tolerant boredom, and was 
putting a cigarette between his faintly smiling lips. 

Meg saw Alayne’s look and expostulated: “ Grand¬ 
mamma ! ” 

“Renny’s the only Court among ’em,” pursued Mrs. 
Whiteoak. “Wait till you see Renny. Where is he? 
I want Renny.” She thumped the floor impatiently with 
her stick. 


i 4 6 JALNA 

“Hell be here very soon, Granny,” said Meg. “He 
rode over to Mr. Probyn’s to get a litter of pigs.” 

“Well, I call that very boorish of him. Boorish. 
Boorish. Did I say boorish ? I mean Boarish. There’s 
a pun, Ernest. You enjoy a pun. Boarish. Ha, ha!” 

Ernest stroked his chin and smiled deprecatingly. 
Nicholas laughed jovially. 

The old lady proceeded with a rakish air of enjoy¬ 
ment. “Renny prefers the grunting of a sow to sweet 
converse with a young bride — ” 

“ Mamma,” said Ernest, “ should n’t you like a pepper¬ 
mint ? ” 

Her attention was instantly distracted. “ Yes. I want 
a peppermint. Fetch me my bag.” 

Ernest brought a little old bead-embroidered bag. His 
mother began to fumble in it, and Boney, leaning from 
her shoulder, pecked at it and uttered cries of greed. 

“A sweet!” he babbled. “A sweet — Boney wants a 
sweet—Pretty Alayne — Pretty Alayne — Boney wants 
a sweet!” 

Grandmother cried in triumph: “He’s said it! He’s 
said it! I told you he could. Good Boney.” She 
fumbled distractedly in the bag. 

“May I help you?” Alayne asked, not without 
timidity. 

The old lady pushed the bag into her hand. “Yes, 
quickly. I want a peppermint. A Scotch mint. Not a 
humbug.” 

“ Boney wants a humbug! ” screamed the parrot, rock¬ 
ing from side to side. “A humbug—Pretty Alayne — 
Kutni! Kutni! Shaitan ke khatla.” 

Grandmother and the parrot leaned forward simul¬ 
taneously for the sweet when it was found, she with pro¬ 
truding wrinkled lips, he with gaping beak. Alayne 
hesitated, fearing to offend either by favoring the other. 


INSIDE THE GATES OF JALNA 147 

While she hesitated Boney snatched it, and with a whir 
of wings flew to a far corner of the room. Grandmother, 
rigid as a statue, remained with protruding mouth till 
Alayne unearthed another sweet and popped it between 
her lips, then she sank back with a sigh of satisfaction, 
closed her eyes, and began to suck noisily. 

Alayne longed to wipe her fingers, but she refrained. 
She looked at the faces about her. They were regarding 
the scene with the utmost imperturbability, except Eden, 
who still wore his look of faintly smiling boredom. A 
cloud of smoke about his head seemed to emphasize his 
aloofness. 

Meg moved closer to him and whispered: “I think I 
shall take Alayne upstairs. I’ve had new chintzes put 
in your room, and fresh curtains, and I ’ve taken the small 
rug from Renny’s room and covered the bare spot on the 
carpet with it. I think you ’ll be pleased when you see it, 
Eden. She’s a perfect dear.” 

Brother and sister looked at Alayne, who was standing 
with the two uncles at a window. They had opened the 
shutters and were showing her the view of the oak woods 
that sloped gradually down to the ravine. A flock of 
sheep were quietly grazing, tended by an old sheep dog. 
Two late lambs were vying with each other in plaintive 
cries. 

Meg came to Alayne and put an ann through hers. 
“I know you would like to go to your room,” she said. 

The two women ascended the stairway together. 
When they reached Eden’s door Meg impetuously seized 
Alayne’s head between her plump hands and kissed her 
on the forehead. “I’m sure we can love each other,” 
she explained, with childish enthusiasm, and Alayne re¬ 
turned the embrace, feeling that it would be easy to love 
this warm-blooded woman with a mouth like a Cupid’s 
bow. 


148 JALNA 

When Eden came up, he found Alayne arranging her 
toilet articles on the dressing table and humming a happy 
little song. He closed the door after him and came to 
her. 

“ I’m glad you can sing,” he said. “ I had told you 
that my family were an unusual set of people, but when 
I saw you among them I began to fear they’d be too 
much for you — that you’d get panicky, perhaps, and 
want to run back to New York.” 

“Is that why you were so quiet downstairs? You had 
an odd expression. I could not quite make it out. I 
thought you looked bored.” 

“I was. I wanted to have you to myself.” He took 
her in his arms. 

Eden was at this moment inexplicably two men. He 
was the lover, strongly possessive and protective. As 
opposed to this, he was the captive, restless, nervous, 
hating the thought of the responsibility of introducing 
his wife to his family, of translating one to the other in 
terms of restraint and affection. 

She said, stroking his hair, which was like a shining 
metallic casque over his head: “Your sister — Meg— 
was delightful to me. She seems quite near already. 
And she tells me she had this room done over for me — 
new chintz and curtains: I am so glad it looks out over 
the park and the sheep. I can scarcely believe I shall 
have sheep to watch from my window.” 

“Let me show you my things,” cried Eden, gayly, 
and he led her about the room, pointing out his various 
belongings from schooldays on, with boyish naivete. He 
showed her the ink-stained desk at which he had written 
many of his poems. 

“ And to think,” she exclaimed, “ that I was far away 
in New York, and you were here, at that desk, writing 
the poems that were to bring us together! ” She stroked 


INSIDE THE GATES OF JALNA 149 

the desk as though it were a living thing, and said, “I 
shall always want to keep it. When we have our own 
house, may we take it there, Eden?” 

“ Of course.” But he wished she would not talk about 
having their own house yet. To change the subject he 
asked, “Did you find Gran rather overpowering? I’m 
afraid I scarcely prepared you for her. But she can’t be 
explained. She’s got to be seen to be credible. The 
uncles are nice old boys.” 

“Do you think” — she spoke hesitatingly, yet with 
determination — “ that it is good for her to spoil her so ? 
She absolutely dominated the room.” 

He smiled down at her quizzically. “My dear, she 
will be a hundred on her next birthday. She was spoiled 
before we ever saw her. My grandfather attended to 
that. Quite possibly she was spoiled before ever he saw 
her. She probably came into the world spoiled by gen¬ 
erations of tyrannical hot-tempered Courts. You will 
just have to make the best of her.” 

“ But the way she spoke about your mother. I cannot 
remember the word — flibberty-something. It hurt me, 
dearest.” 

Eden ran his hand through his hair in sudden exasper¬ 
ation. “ You must not be so sensitive, Alayne. Words 
like that are a mere caress compared to what Gran can 
bring out on occasion.” 

“ But about your dear mother,” she persisted. 

“Aren’t women always like that about their daughters- 
in-law? Wait till you have one of your own and see. 
Wait till you are ninety-nine. You may be no more 
sweet-tempered than Gran by then.” 

Eden laughed gayly, but with an air of dismissing the 
subject, and drew her to the chintz-covered window seat. 
“Let’s sit down here a bit and enjoy Meggie’s new deco¬ 
ration. I think she’s done us thundering well, don’t you ? ” 


150 JALNA 

Alayne leaned against him, breathing deeply of the 
tranquil air of Indian summer that came like a palpable 
essence through the open window. The earth, after all 
its passion of bearing, was relaxed in passive and slum¬ 
brous contentment. Its desires were fulfilled, its gushing 
fertility over. In profound languor it seemed to brood 
neither on the future nor on the past, but on its own 
infinite relation to the sun and to the stars. The sun had 
become personal. Red and rayless, he hung above the 
land as though listening to the slow beating of a great 
heart. 

She became aware that Eden was observing someone 
in the grounds outside. She heard the sound of a horse’s 
hoofs and, turning, saw a man leaning from his horse 
to fasten the gate behind him. Her beauty-loving eye 
was caught first by the satin shimmer of the beast’s 
chestnut coat. Then she perceived that the rider was tall 
and thin, that he stooped in the saddle with an air of 
slouching accustomedness, and, as he passed beneath the 
window, that he had a red, sharp-featured face that 
looked rather foxlike beneath his peaked tweed cap. 

The two clumber spaniels had rushed out to greet him 
and were bounding about the horse, their long silken ears 
flapping. Their barking irritated the horse, and, after a 
nip or two at them, he broke into a canter and disappeared 
with his rider behind a row of Scotch firs that hid the 
stables from the house. 

“ Renny,” murmured Eden, “ back from his porcine 
expedition.” 

“ Yes, I thought it must be Renny, though he is not like 
what I expected him to be. Why did you not call to 
him?” 

“He’s rather a shy fellow. I thought it might em¬ 
barrass both of you to exchange your first greetings from 
such different altitudes.” 


L ( 


INSIDE THE GATES OF JALNA 151 

Alayne, listening to the muffled sound of hoofs, r 
marked: “He gives the impression of a strong per¬ 
sonality.” 

“ He has. And he’s as wiry and strong as the Devil. 
I’ve never known him to be ill for a day. He ’ll prob¬ 
ably live to be as old as Gran.” 

“Gran — Gran,” thought Alayne. Every conversa¬ 
tion in this family seemed to be punctuated by remarks 
about that dreadful old woman. 

“ And he owns all this,” she commented. “ It does not 
seem quite fair to all you others.” 

“ It was left that way. He has to educate and provide 
for the younger family. The uncles had their share 
years ago. And of course Gran simply hoards hers. 
No one knows who will get it.” 

“ Gran ” again. 

A gentle breeze played with a tendril of hair on her 
forehead. Eden brushed his lips against it. “ Darling,” 
he murmured, “do you think you can be happy here 
for a while?” 

“Eden! I am gloriously happy.” 

“We shall write such wonderful things — together.” 

They heard steps on the graveled path that led to the 
back of the house. Alayne, opening her eyes, heavy with 
a momentary sweet languor, saw Renny enter the kitchen, 
his dogs at his heels. A moment later a tap bounded oh 
the door. 

“Please,” said Wake’s voice, “will you come down tc| 
dinner?” 

He could not restrain his curiosity about the bride an(E 
groom. It seemed very strange to find this young lady iih 
Eden’s room, but it was disappointing that there were njc 
confetti and orange blossoms about. 

Alayne put her arm around his shoulders as they de¬ 
scended the stairs, feeling more support from his lit 


152 JALNA 

body in the ordeal of meeting the rest of the family than 
the presence of Eden afforded her. There were still 
Renny and the wife of young Piers. 

Their feet made no sound on the thick carpet of the 
stairs. The noontide light falling through the colored 
glass window gave the hall an almost church-like solem¬ 
nity, and the appearance at the far end of old Mrs. 
Whiteoak emerging from her room, supported on either 
side by her sons, added a final processional touch. 
Through the open door of the dining room Alayne could 
see the figures of Renny, Piers, and a young girl advanc¬ 
ing toward the table. Meg already stood at one end of it, 
surveying its great damask expanse as some high priest¬ 
ess might survey the sacrificial altar. On a huge platter 
already lay two rotund roasted fowls. Rags stood be¬ 
hind a drawn-back chair, awaiting Mrs. Whiteoak. As 
the old lady saw Alayne and her escorts approaching the 
door of the dining room, she made an obviously heroic 
effort to reach it first, shuffling her feet excitedly, and 
snuffing the good smell of the roast with the excitement 
of an old war horse smelling blood. 

“ Steady, Mamma, steady,” begged Ernest, steering 
her past a heavily carved hall chair. 

“I want my dinner,” she retorted, breathing heavily. 
“ Chicken. I smell chicken. And cauliflower. I must 
have the pope’s nose, and plenty of bread sauce.” 

Not until she was seated was Alayne introduced to 
Renny and Pheasant. He bowed gravely, and mur¬ 
mured some only half-intelligible greeting. She might 
have heard it more clearly had her mind been less occu¬ 
pied with the scrutiny of him at sudden close quarters. 
She was observing his narrow, weather-beaten face, the 
skin like red-brown leather merging in color into the 
'J ist-red of his hair, his short thick eyelashes, his ab- 
rVacted, yet fiery eyes. She observed too his handsome, 


INSIDE THE GATES OF JALNA 153 

hard-looking nose, which was far too much like his 
grandmother’s. 

Pheasant she saw as a flower-like young girl, a fragile 
Narcissus poeticus in this robust, highly colored garden 
of Jalna. 

Alayne was seated at Renny Whiteoak’s left, and at 
her left Eden, and next him Pheasant and Piers. Wake¬ 
field had been moved to the other side of the table, be¬ 
tween his sister and Uncle Ernest. Alayne had only 
glimpses of him around the centrepiece of crimson and 
bronze dahlias, flowers that in their rigid and uncompro¬ 
mising beauty were well fitted to withstand the overpow¬ 
ering presence of the Whiteoaks. Whenever Alayne’s 
eyes met the little boy’s, he smiled. Whenever her eyes 
met Meg’s, Meg’s lips curved in their own peculiar smile. 
But when her eyes met those of Mrs. Whiteoak, the old 
lady showed every tooth in a kind of ferocious friendli¬ 
ness, immediately returning to her dinner with renewed 
zeal, as though to make up for lost time. 

The master of Jalna set about the business of carving 
with the speed and precision of one handing out rations 
to an army. But there was nothing haphazard about his 
method of apportioning the fowl. With carving knit? 
poised, he shot a quick look at the particular member of 
the family he was about to serve, then, seeming to know 
either what they preferred or what was best for them, 
he slashed it off and handed the plate to Rags, who glided 
with it to Meg, who served the vegetables. 

To one accustomed to a light luncheon, the sight of so 
much food at this hour was rather disconcerting. Alayne J 
looking at these enormous dinner plates mounded with 
chicken, bread sauce, mashed potatoes, cauliflower, and 
green peas, thought of little salad lunches in New York 
with mild regret. They seemed very far away. Even 
the table silver was enormous. The great knife anq. 



i 5 4 JALNA 

fork felt like implements in her hands. The salt cellars 
and pepper pots seemed weighted by memories of all the 
bygone meals they had savored. The long-necked vine¬ 
gar bottle reared its head like a tawny giraffe in the 
massive jungle of the table. 

Renny was saying, in his vibrant voice that was with¬ 
out the music of Eden’s, “ I’m sorry I could not go to 
your wedding. I could not get away at that time.” 

“Yes,” chimed in Meg, “ Renny and I wanted so very 
much to go, but we could not arrange it. Finch had a 
touch of tonsillitis just then, and Wakefield’s heart was 
not behaving very well, and of course there is Grand¬ 
mamma.” 

Mrs. Whiteoak broke in: “I wanted to go, but I’m too 
old to travel. I did all my traveling in my youth. I’ve 
been all over the world. But I sent my love. Did you 
get my love? I sent my love in Meggie’s letter. Did 
you get it, eh ? ” 

“Yes, indeed,” said Alayne. “We were so very glad 
to get your message.” 

“ You’d better be. I don’t send my love to everyone, 
helter-skelter.” She nodded her cap so vigorously that 
three green peas bounced from her fork and rolled across 
:he table. Wakefield was convulsed by laughter. He 
said, “Bang!” as each pea fell, and shot one of his own 
after them. Renny looked down the table sharply at him, 
and he subsided. 

Grandmother peered at her fork, shrewdly missing the 
peas. 

A “My peas are gone,” she said. “I want more peas; 
more cauliflower and potatoes, too.” 

She was helped to more vegetables, and at once began 
to mould them with her fork into a solid mass. 

) “Mamma,” objected Ernest mildly, “must you do 
that?” 


INSIDE THE GATES OF JALNA 155 

Sasha, who was perched on his shoulder, observing 
that his attention was directed away from his poised fork, 
stretched out one furry paw and drew it toward her own 
whiskered lips. Ernest rescued the morsel of chicken 
just in time. “Naughty, naughty,” he said. 

As though there had been no interruption, Meg con¬ 
tinued : — 

“It must have been such a pretty wedding. Eden 
wrote us all about it.” 

By this time Renny had attacked the second fowl 
with his carvers. Alayne had made no appreciable in¬ 
roads on her dinner, but all the Whiteoaks were ready 
for more. 

“Renny, did you get the pigs?” asked Piers, breaking 
in on conversation about the wedding with, Alayne 
thought, ostentatious brusqueness. 

“ Yes. You never saw a grander litter. Got the nine 
and the old sow for a hundred dollars. I offered ninety; 
Probyn wanted a hundred and ten. I met him halfway.” 
The master of Jalna began to talk of the price of pigs 
with gusto. Everyone talked of the price of pigs; and 
everyone agreed that Renny had paid too much. 

Only the disheveled carcass of the second fowl re¬ 
mained on the platter. Then it was removed, and a 
steaming blackberry pudding and a large plum tart made 
their appearance. 

“You are eating almost nothing, dear Alayne,” said 
Meg. “ I do hope you will like the pudding.” 

Renny was looking at Alayne steadily from under his 
thick lashes, the immense pudding spoon expectantly 
poised. 

“ Thank you,” she answered. “ But I really could not. 
I will take a little of the pie.” 

“ Please don’t urge her, Meggie,” said Eden. “ She 
is used to luncheon at noon.” 


156 JALNA 

“Oh, but the pudding/’ sighed Meg. “It’s such a 
favorite of ours.” 

“ I like it,” said the grandmother with a savage grin; 
“ please give me some.” 

She got her pudding and Alayne her tart, but when 
Meg’s turn arrived, she breathed: “No, thank you, 
Renny. Nothing for me.” And Renny, knowing of the 
trays carried to her room, made no remark, but Eden 
explained in an undertone, “Meggie eats nothing—at 
least almost nothing at the table. You ’ll soon get used 
to that.” 

Meggie was pouring tea from a heavily chased silver 
pot. Even little Wake had some; but how Alayne longed 
for a cup of coffee, for the plum tart, though good, was 
very rich. It seemed to cry out for coffee. 

Would she ever get used to them, Alayne wondered. 
Would they ever seem near to her—like relatives? As 
they rose from the table and moved in different direc¬ 
tions, she felt a little oppressed, she did not quite know 
whether by the weight of the dinner or by the family, 
which was so unexpectedly foreign to her. 

Old Mrs. Whiteoak pushed her son Ernest from her, 
and, extending a heavily ringed hand to Alayne, com¬ 
manded : — 

“You give me your arm, my dear, on this side. You 
may as well get into the ways of the family at once.” 

Alayne complied with a feeling of misgiving. She 
doubted whether she could efficiently take the place of 
Ernest. The old woman clutched her arm vigorously, 
dragging with what seemed unnecessary and almost in¬ 
tolerable weight. The two, with Nicholas towering 
above them, shuffled their way to Mrs. Whiteoak’s 
bedroom and established her there before the fire 
by painful degrees. Alayne, flushed with the exertion, 
straightened her back and stared with surprise at the 


INSIDE THE GATES OF JALNA 157 

unique magnificence of the painted leather bedstead, the 
inlaid dresser and tables, the Indian rugs, and flamboyant 
hangings. 

Mrs. Whiteoak pulled at her skirt. “ Sit down, my 
girl, sit down on this footstool. Ha—I’m out o’ breath. 
Winded — ” She panted alarmingly. 

“ Too much dinner, Mamma,” said Nicholas, striking 
a match on the mantelpiece and lighting a cigarette. “ If 
you will overeat, you will wheeze.” 

“ You ’re a fine one to talk,” retorted his mother, sud¬ 
denly getting her breath. “Look at your own leg, and 
the way you eat and swill down spirits.” 

Boney, hearing the voice of his mistress raised in 
anger, roused himself from his after-dinner doze on the 
foot of the bed, and screamed: “ Shaitan! Shaitan ka 
bata! Shaitan ka butcha! Kunjus!” 

Mrs. Whiteoak leaned over Alayne, where she now sat 
on the footstool, and .stroked her neck and shoulders 
with a hand not so much caressing as appraising. She 
raised her heavy red eyebrows to the lace edging of her 
cap and commented with an arch grin: — 

“A bonny body. Well covered, but not too plump. 
Slender, but not skinny. Meg’s too plump. Pheasant’s 
skinny. You’re just right for a bride. Eh, my dear, 
but if I was a young man I’d like to sleep with you.” 

Alayne, painfully scarlet, turned her face away from 
Mrs. Whiteoak toward the blaze of the fire. Nicholas 
was comfortingly expressionless. 

“ Another thing,” chuckled Mrs. Whiteoak, “ I’m glad 
you’ve lots of brass. I am indeed.” 

“ Easy now,” cried Boney. “ Easy does it! ” 

At that moment Grandmother fell into one of her 
sudden naps. Nicholas smiled down tolerantly at his 
sleeping parent. 

“You mustn’t mind what she says. Remember, she’s 


158 JALNA 

ninety-nine, and she’s never had her spirit broken by 
life — or by the approach of death. You’re not offended, 
are you?” 

“N-no. But she says I am — brazen. Why, it al¬ 
most makes me laugh. I’ve always been considered 
rather retiring — even diffident.” 

Nicholas made subterranean sounds of mirth that had 
in them a measure of relief, but he offered no explana¬ 
tion. Instead, he took her hand and drew her to her 
feet. 

“ Come,” he said, “ and I ’ll show you my room. I 
expect you to visit me often there, and tell me all about 
New York, and I’ll tell you about London in the old 
days. I’m a regular fossil now, but if you ’ll believe me, 
I was a gay fellow once.” 

He led the way to his room, heaving himself up 
the stairs by the hand railing. He installed her by the 
window, where she could enjoy the splendor of the 
autumn woods and where the light fell over her, bring¬ 
ing out the chestnut tints in her hair and the pearl-like 
pallor of her skin. It was so long since he had met a 
young woman of beauty and intelligence that the contact 
exhilarated him, made the blood quicken in his veins. 
Before he realized it, he was telling her incidents of his 
life of which he had not spoken for years. He even un¬ 
earthed a photograph of his wife in a long-trained eve¬ 
ning gown, and showed it to her. His face, massive and 
heavily lined, looked, as he recalled those bygone days, 
like a rock from which the sea has long receded, but 
which bears on its seamed and battered surface irrevo¬ 
cable evidence of the fury of past storms. 

He presented her, as a wedding present, with a silver 
bowl in which he had been accustomed to keep his pipes, 
first brightening it up with a silk handkerchief. 

“ You are to keep roses in it now, my dear,” he said, 


INSIDE THE GATES OF JALNA 159 

and quite casually he put his fingers under her chin, 
raised her face, and kissed her. Alayne was touched by 
the gift, a little puzzled by a certain smiling masterful¬ 
ness in the caress. 

A moment later Ernest Whiteoak appeared at the door. 
Alayne must now inspect his retreat. No, Nicholas was 
not wanted, just Alayne. 

“He intends to bore you with his melancholy an¬ 
notating of Shakespeare. I warn you,” exclaimed 
Nicholas. 

“Nonsense,” said Ernest. “I just don’t want to feel 
utterly shelved. Don’t be a beast, Nick. Alayne is as 
much interested in me as she is in you; aren’t you, 
Alayne?” 

“ She’s not interested in you at all,” retorted Nicholas, 
“ but she’s enthralled by my sweet discourse; are n’t you, 
Alayne?” 

They seemed to take pleasure in the mere pronouncing 
of her name; using it on every occasion. 

To Ernest’s room she was led then, and because of his 
brother’s gibe he at first would not speak of his hobby, 
contenting himself with showing her his water colors, 
the climbing rose whose yellow flowers still spilled their 
fragrance across his window sill, and the complaisant 
feline tricks of Sasha. But when Alayne showed an un¬ 
mistakable interest in the annotation of Shakespeare and 
an unexpected knowledge of the text, his enthusiasm 
overflowed like Niagara in springtime. Two hours flew 
by, in which they established the intimacy of congenial 
tastes. Ernest’s thin cheeks were flushed; his blue eyes 
had become quite large and bright. He drummed the 
fingers of one hand incessantly on the table. 

So Meg found them when she came to carry Alayne 
away for an inspection of the house and garden. Eden 
was off somewhere with Renny, Meg explained, and 


160 JALNA 

Alayne had a sudden feeling of anger toward this brother 
who so arrogantly swept Eden from her side, and who 
was so casually polite to her himself. 

It was warm enough to have tea -on the lawn, Meg 
announced, and when she and Alayne returned from their 
tour of the mass of overgrown lilacs, syringas, and 
guelder-rose trees that was called “the shrubbery,” and 
the sleepy kitchen garden where the rows of cabbages 
and celery and rank bed of parsley were flanked by 
scarlet sage and heavy-headed dahlias, they found that 
Rags had arranged the tea things on the wicker table. 
Some of the family were already disposed about it in 
deck chairs or on the grass, according to their years. 

Alayne’s eyes missed no detail of the scene before her: 
the emerald-green lawn lying in rich shadow, while the 
upper portions of the surrounding trees were bathed in 
lambent sunshine which so intensified their varying 
autumn hues that they had the unreal splendor of colors 
seen under water. Near the tea table Grandmother dozed 
in her purple velvet tea gown. Nicholas was stretched, 
half recumbent, playing idly with the ears of Nip, whose 
pointed muzzle was twitching expectantly toward the 
plates of cakes; Ernest stood courteously by his chair; 
on the grass sprawled bare-kneed Wake with a pair of 
rabbits, and bony long-limbed Finch, whom she now saw 
for the first time. Eden, Piers, and Renny did not ap¬ 
pear, but before the second pot of tea was emptied young 
Pheasant slipped into the scene, carrying a branch of 
scarlet maple leaves, which she laid across the knees of 
Nicholas. 

A mood of gentle hilarity possessed them all. As she 
ate cucumber sandwiches and cheese cakes, Alayne felt 
more in harmony with the life that was to be hers among 
this family. She was relieved by the absence of the three 
who did not join the party. With Eden away, she could 


INSIDE THE GATES OF JALNA 161 

more readily submerge herself in the family, explore the 
backwater of their relations with each other. In the case 
of Piers, she felt only relief from a presence that was at 
least covertly hostile. As for Renny, she could not make 
him out. She would need time for that. Just now his 
dominating personality, combined with his air of ab¬ 
straction, puzzled and rather irritated her. 

Eden had told her that Renny did not like his poetry, 
that he did not like any poetry. She thought of him as 
counting endless processions of foals, calves, lambs, and 
young pigs, always with an eye on the market. She 
would have been surprised, could she have followed him 
to his bedroom that night, to find how gentle he was 
toward little Wake, who was tossing about, unable to 
sleep after the excitement of the day. Renny rubbed his 
legs and patted his back as a mother might have done. 
In fact, in his love for his little brother he combined the 
devotion of both father and mother. Meg was all 
grown-up sister. 

Wake, drowsy at last, curled up against Renny’s chest 
and murmured: “I believe I could go to sleep more 
quickly if we’d pretend we were somebody else, Renny, 
please.” 

“Do you? All right. Who shall we be? Living 
people or people out of the books? You say.” 

Wake thought a minute, getting sleepier with each 
tick of Renny’s watch beneath the pillow; then he 
breathed: “ I think we ’ll be Eden and Alayne.” 

Renny stifled a laugh. “All right. Which am I?” 

Wake considered again, deliciously drowsy, sniffing 
at the nice odor of tobacco, Windsor soap, and warm 
flesh that emanated from Renny. 

“ I think you’d better be Alayne,” he whispered. 

Renny, too, considered this transfiguration. It seemed 
difficult, but he said resignedly: “Very well. Fire away.” 


162 JALNA 

There was silence for a space; then Wakefield whis¬ 
pered, twisting a button of Renny’s pyjamas: “You go 
first, Renny. Say something.” 

Renny spoke sweetly: “Do you love me, Eden?” 

Wake chuckled, then answered, seriously: “Oh, heaps. 
I ’ll buy you anything you want. What would you like ? ” 

“I’d like a limousine, and an electric toaster, and — 
a feather boa.” 

“ I ’ll get them all first thing in the morning. Is there 
anything else you’d like, my girl ? ” 

“M — yes. I’d like to go to sleep.” 

“Now, see here, you can’t,” objected the pseudo¬ 
groom. “Ladies don’t pop straight off to sleep like that.” 

But apparently this lady did. The only response that 
Wakefield could elicit was a gentle but persistent snore. 

For a moment Wake was deeply hurt, but the steady 
rise and fall of Renny’s chest was soothing. He snug¬ 
gled closer to him, and soon he too was fast asleep. 


XIV 

FINCH 

The coming of Alayne had made a deep and rather over¬ 
whelming impression on young Finch. She was unlike 
anyone he had ever met; she filled his mind with curiosity 
and tremulous admiration; he could not put the thought 
of her aside on that first night. Her face was between 
him and the dry pages over which he pored. He was 
driven to rise once in the middle of wrestling with a 
problem in algebra and creep halfway down the stairs, 
just to watch her for a few minutes through the open 
door of the drawing-room, where the family sat at bridge 
and backgammon. Her presence in the house seemed to 
him a most lovely and disturbing thing, like a sudden 
strain of music. 

He longed to touch her dress, which was of a material 
he could not remember having seen before, and of a 
color he could not name. He longed to touch her hands, 
the flesh of which looked so delicate and yet so firm. As 
he crouched over his uncongenial tasks in the untidy bed¬ 
room, strange thoughts and visions blurred the dog’s- 
eared page before him. A chill breeze coming in at the 
window carried the sounds and scents of the late autumn 
countryside: the rustle of leaves that were losing their 
fresh resilience and becoming sapless and crisp; the 
scrape of two dead branches, one on the other, as though 
the oak tree to which they belonged strove to play a 
dirge for the dead summer; the fantastic tapping of a 
vine against the pane, dancing a skeleton dance to the eerie 
music of the oak; the smell of countless acres of land lying 
heavy and dank, stupefied by the approach of barrenness. 


164 JALNA 

What did it all mean? Why had he been put into this 
strange confusion of faces, voices, bewildering sounds 
of night and day? Who was there in the world to love 
him and care for him as Alayne loved and cared for 
Eden? No one, he was sure. He belonged to the lonely, 
fretful sounds which came in at the window rather than 
to warm human arms and clinging human lips. 

His mind dwelt on the thought of kissing the mouth 
of Eden’s wife. He was submerged in an abyss of 
dreaming, his head sunk on his clenched hands. A 
second self, white and wraithlike, glided from his breast 
and floated before him in a pale greenish ether. He 
watched it with detached exultation in its freedom. It 
often freed itself from his body at times like these, some¬ 
times disappearing almost instantly, at others floating 
near him as though beckoning him to follow. Now it 
moved face downward like one swimming, and another 
dim shape floated beside it. He pressed his knuckles into 
his eyes, drawing fiery colors from the lids, trying to see, 
yet afraid to see, the face of the other figure. But neither 
of the floating figures had a discernible face. One, he knew, 
belonged to him because it had emerged from his own 
body, but the other, fantastically floating, whence came 
it? Had it risen from the body of the girl in the draw¬ 
ing-room below, torn from her by the distraught questing 
of his own soul? What was she? What was he? Why 
were they here, all the warm-blooded hungry people, in 
this house called Jalna? 

What was Jalna? The house, he knew very well, had 
a soul. He had heard it sighing, moving about in the 
night. He believed that from the churchyard sometimes 
the spirits of his father and his father’s wives, his grand¬ 
father, and even the dead infant Whiteoaks, congregated 
under this roof to refresh themselves, to drink of the 
spirit of Jalna, that spirit which was one with the thin 


FINCH 


165 

and fine rain that now began to fall. They pressed close 
to him, mocking him — the grandfather in hussar’s uni¬ 
form, the infants in long pale swaddling clothes. 

His temples throbbed, his cheeks burned, his hands 
were clammy and very cold. He rose, letting his books 
fall to the floor, and went to the window. He knelt there 
and leaned across the sill, holding his hands out into the 
rain, in an attitude of prayer, his thin wrists projecting 
from the frayed edges of his sleeves. 

By degrees peace descended on him, but he did not 
want to look back into the room. He thought of the 
nights when he had shared the bed with Piers. He had 
always been longing for the time when he might sleep 
in peace, free from his brother’s tormenting. Now he 
felt that he would be glad of Piers’s wholesome presence 
to protect him from his own thoughts. 

Why did God not protect him? Finch believed des¬ 
perately and yet gloriously in God. During the Scripture 
study at school, while other boys were languishing in their 
seats, his eyes .were riveted on the pages that seemed to 
burn with the grandeur and terror of God. The words 
of Jesus, the thought of that lonely figure of an inspired 
young man, were beautiful to him, but it was the Old 
Testament that shook his soul. When the time came for 
questions and examinations in Scripture, Finch was so 
incoherent, so afraid of disclosing his real feelings, that 
he usually stood at the foot of the class. 

“A queer devil, Finch Whiteoak,” was the verdict of 
his schoolfellows, “not in it with his brothers.” For 
Renny’s athletic prowess was still remembered; Eden’s 
tennis, his running, his prize-winning in English literature 
and languages; Piers as captain of the Rugby team. Finch 
did nothing well. As he traveled back and forth to school 
in the train, slouching in a corner of the seat, his cap with 
the school badge pulled over his eyes, he wondered, with 


166 JALNA 

a bitterness unusual at his age, what he would do 
with his life. He seemed fitted for nothing in particular. 
No business or profession of which he had ever heard 
awakened any response of inclination in him. He would 
have liked to stay at home and work with Piers, but he 
quailed before the thought of a life subject to his 
brother’s tyranny. 

Sometimes he dreamed of standing in the pulpit of a 
vast, dim cathedral, such as he had seen only in pictures, 
and swaying a multitude by his burning eloquence. He, 
Finch Whiteoak, in a long white surplice and richly em¬ 
broidered stole — a bishop — an archbishop, the very 
head of the Church, next to God Himself. But the dream 
always ended by the congregation’s fleeing from the 
cathedral, a panic-stricken mob; for he had unwittingly 
let them have a glimpse of his own frightened, craven 
soul, howling like a poor hound before the terror of God. 

“Wilt thou break a leaf driven to and fro? and wilt 
thou pursue the dry stubble ? ” 

He was growing quieter now as he hung across the sill, 
letting the fine mist of rain moisten his hands and head. 
Below, on the lawn, a bright square of light fell from a 
window of the drawing-room. Someone came and stood 
at the window, throwing the shadow of a woman into 
the bright rectangle. Which of them? Meg, Pheasant, 
Alayne ? Alayne, he felt sure. There was something in 
the poise. . . . Again he thought of her lips, of kissing 
them. He drew in his hands, wet with rain, and pressed 
them against his eyeballs. “For thou writest bitter 
things against me, and makest me to possess the iniquities 
of my youth.” Why could he remember these tortur¬ 
ing texts, when nothing else would stay in his head? 
“Make me to hear joy and gladness; that the bones 
which thou hast broken may rejoice. ” He pressed his 
fingers closer, and there began going through his brain 


FINCH 


167 

things that a Scotch laborer on the farm had told. The 
man had formerly been a factory hand in Glasgow. 
Finch remembered an endless jigging song he had sung in 
a kind of whisper, that had ribald words. He remem¬ 
bered a scene of which he had been an undiscovered 
witness. 

It had been in the pine grove, the last remnant of the 
primeval forest thereabout. This grove was as dark as 
a church at twilight, and was hidden in the heart of a 
great sunny wood of silver birches, maples, and oak, full 
of bird song and carpeted with glossy wintergreen leaves, 
which in springtime were starred with windflowers and 
star-of-Bethlehem and tiny purple orchids. There was 
little bird song in the pine grove, and no flowers, but the 
air in there was always charged with the whisperings and 
the pungent scent of pine needles. The deeply shaded 
aisles between the trees were slippery with them, and 
there what little sunshine filtered in was richly yellow. 

It was a place of deep seclusion. Finch liked nothing 
so well as to spend a Saturday morning there by himself, 
and give himself up to the imaginings that were nearly 
always free and beautiful among the pines. 

He had gone there early on that morning to escape 
Meg, who had wanted him to do some disagreeable task 
about the house. He had heard her calling and calling 
as he had run across the lawn and dived into the shrub¬ 
bery. He had heard her call to Wake, asking if he had 
seen him. He had stretched his long legs across the 
meadow and the pasture, leaped the stream, and disap¬ 
peared from the sight of all into the birch wood. His 
pulses had been throbbing and his heart leaping with joy 
in his freedom. Among the gay, light-foliaged trees 
he had passed, eager for the depth and solitude of the 
pines, which with an air of gentle secrecy they seemed 
to guard. But he had found that he was not alone. In 


168 JALNA 

the dimmest recess, where the grove dipped into a little 
hollow, he had discovered Renny standing with a woman 
in his arms. He was kissing her with a certain fierce 
punctiliousness on the mouth, on the neck, while she 
caressed him with slavish tenderness. While Finch stood 
staring, they had parted, she smoothing the strands of 
her long hair as she hurried away, Renny looking after 
her for a space, waving his hand to her when she looked 
back over her shoulder and then sauntering with bent 
head toward home. 

Finch had never been able to find out who that woman 
was, though he had looked eagerly in the faces of all the 
women he had met for a long time. He had even gone 
to the pine grove and lain there motionless for hours, 
hoping, yet fearing, that she and Renny would return, 
his heart beating expectantly at every sound; but they 
had never come. He often gazed with envious curiosity 
into Renny’s lean red face, wondering what thoughts 
were in his head. Piers had observed once to him that 
women always “fell ” for Renny. He could understand 
why, and he reflected forlornly that they would never fall 
for him. 

He heard Wakefield calling to him plaintively from 
his bed: “Finch, Finch! Come here, please!” 

He went down the hallway, passing Meg’s door, which 
was covered by a heavy chenille curtain that gave an air 
of cozy seclusion to her sanctum. 

“ Well ? ” he asked, putting his head into Renny’s room, 
where Wake sat up in bed, flushed and bright-eyed in the 
yellow lamplight. 

“Oh, Finch, I can’t sleep. My legs feel like cotton 
wool. When do you think Renny ’ll come ? ” 

“How can I tell?” Finch answered, gruffly. “You go 
to sleep. That’s all nonsense about your legs. They ’re 
no more cotton wool than mine are.” 


FINCH 


169 

“Oh, Finch, please come in. Don’t leave me alone! 
Just come and talk for a little while. Just a minute, 
please” 

Finch came in and sat down on the foot of the bed. 
He took a lone, somewhat disheveled cigarette wrapped 
in silver paper from his pocket, unwrapped and lighted it. 

Wake watched him, the strained look of loneliness pass¬ 
ing from his little face. 

“ Give me a puff or two,” he begged, “ just a few puffs, 
please, Finch.” 

“No,” growled Finch, “you’ll make yourself sick. 
You’re not allowed.” 

“Neither are you.” 

“Yes, I am* 

“Well, not many.” 

“You don’t call this many, do you?” 

“I’ve seen you twice, no — three times before to-day.” 

Finch raised his voice. “You see a darned sight too 
much.” 

“Why, I’d never tell on you, Finch.” Wake’s tone 
was aggrieved. “I only want one little puff.” 

With a growl, Finch took the cigarette from his own 
lips and stuck it between his small brother’s. “Now, 
then,” he said, “make the best of your time.” 

Wake inhaled deeply, luxuriously, his eyes beaming 
at Finch through the smoke. He exhaled. Again, again. 
Then he returned the cigarette to its owner, still more 
battered and very moist. Finch looked at it doubtfully 
a moment, and then put it back philosophically into his 
own mouth. He felt happier. He was glad after all that 
Wake had called him. Poor little devil, he had his own 
troubles. 

The darkness pouring into the room from the strange, 
dreamlike world outside had a liberating effect on the 
minds of the two boys. The tiny light of the candle, 


170 JALNA 

reflected in the mirror on the dresser, only faintly illumi¬ 
nated their faces, seeming to draw them upward from an 
immense void. 

“Finch/’ asked Wake, “do you believe in God?” 

A tremor ran through Finch’s body at the question. 
He peered at the child, trying to make out whether he 
had divined any of his imaginings. 

“ I suppose I do,” he answered. Then he asked, almost 
timidly, “ Do you ? ” 

“Yes. But what I’m wondering is — what kind of 
face has He? Has He a real face, Finch, or — just some¬ 
thing flat and white where His face ought to be ? That’s 
what I think sometimes.” Wake’s voice had fallen to a 
whisper, and he pulled nervously at the coverlet. 

Finch clutched his knees, staring at the candle that 
was now sputtering, almost out. 

“ His face is always changing,” he said. “ That’s why 
you can’t see it. Don’t you ever try to see it, Wake; 
you’re too young. You’re not strong enough. You’d 
go nutty.” 

“Have you seen it, Finch?” This conversation w T as 
like a ghost story to Wake, frightening, yet exhilarating. 
“ Do tell me what you’ve seen.” 

“ Shut up,” shouted Finch, springing up from the bed. 
“ Go to sleep. I’m going.” He lunged toward the door, 
but the candle had gone out and he had to grope his way. 

“ Finch, Finch, don’t leave me,” Wake was wailing. 

But Finch did not stop till he reached his own bed, and 
threw himself face downward upon it. There he lay 
until he heard the others coming Up the stairs. 


XV 

MORE ABOUT FINCH 


The next morning a mild, steady wind was blowing, 
which had appropriated to itself every pungent autumn 
scent in its journeying across wood and orchard. It 
blew in at the window and gently stirred the hair on 
Finch’s forehead, and brought to his cheeks a childish 
pink. He did not hurry to get up, but stretched at ease 
a while, for it was a Saturday morning. His morbid fan¬ 
cies of the night before were gone, and his mind was now 
occupied in making a momentous decision. Should he 
put on some old clothes and steal out of the house with 
only something snatched from the kitchen for break¬ 
fast, thus avoiding a meeting with Eden’s wife, for this 
morning he was shy of her, or should he dress with 
extra care and make a really good impression on her by 
appearing both well turned out and at ease ? 

Those who were early risers would have had their break¬ 
fast by now and be about the business of the day, but 
Eden never showed up till nine, and Finch supposed that 
a New York girl would naturally keep late hours. He 
wanted very much to make a good impression on Alayne. 

He got up at last, and, after carefully washing his 
face and hands and scrubbing his neck at the washstand, 
he took from its hanger his new dark blue flannel suit. 
When it was on and his best blue-and-white striped shirt, 
he was faced by the problem of a tie. He had a really 
handsome one of blue and gray, which Meggie had given 
him on his last birthday, but he was nervous about wear¬ 
ing it. Meg would be sure to get on her hind feet if 
she caught him sporting it on a mere Saturday. Even 


172 JALNA 

wearing the suit was risky. He thought he had better 
slip upstairs after breakfast and change into an old one. 
Perhaps he had better change now. He was a fool to try 
to please Alayne’s fastidious New York eye. He hesitated, 
admiring his reflection in the looking glass. He longingly 
fingered the tie. The thought of going to Piers’s room 
and borrowing one of his ties entered his mind, but he 
put it aside. Now that Piers was married, young Pheas¬ 
ant was always about. 

Damn it all! The tie was his, and he would wear it if 
he wanted to. 

He tied it carefully. He cleaned and polished his nails 
on a worn-out buffer Meggie had thrown away. Me¬ 
ticulously he parted and brushed his rather lank fair 
hair, plastered it down with a little pomade which he 
dug out of an empty jar Eden had thrown aside. 

A final survey of himself in the glass brought a grin, 
half pleased, half sheepish, to his face. He sneaked past 
the closed door of his sister’s room and slowly descended 
the stairs. 

It was as he had hoped. Eden and Alayne were the 
only occupants of the dining room. They sat close to¬ 
gether at one side of the table. His place was on Alayne’s 
left. With a muttered “Good morning” he dragged 
forth his chair and subsided into it, crimson with shyness. 

After one annoyed glance at the intruder, Eden vouch¬ 
safed him no attention whatever, speaking to Alayne in 
so low a tone that Finch, with ears strained to catch 
these gentle morning murmurings of young husband to 
young wife, could make out no word. He devoted him¬ 
self to his porridge, humbly taking what pleasure he 
could draw from the proximity of Alayne. A fresh 
sweetness seemed to emanate from her. Out of the cor¬ 
ner of his eye he watched the movements of her hands. 
He tried very hard not to make a noise over his porridge 


MORE ABOUT FINCH 


173 

and milk, but every mouthful descended his throat with 
a gurgling sound. His very ears burned with embar¬ 
rassment. 

Alayne thought she had never before seen anyone eat 
such an immense plate of cereal. She hated cereals. She 
had said to Eden almost pettishly: “I do not want any 
cereal, thank you, Eden.” And he had almost forced 
her to take it. 

“Porridge is good for you,” he had said, heavily 
sugaring his own. 

He did not seem to notice that this breakfast was not 
at all the sort to which she was used. There was no 
fruit. Her soul cried out for coffee, and there was the 
same great pot of tea, this time set before her to pour. 
Frizzled fat bacon, so much buttered toast, and bitter 
orange marmalade did not tempt her. Eden partook of 
everything with hilarity, crunching the toast crusts in his 
strong white teeth, trying brazenly to put his arm about 
her waist before the inquisitive eyes of the boy. Some¬ 
thing fastidious in her was not pleased with him this 
morning. Suddenly she found herself wondering 
whether if she had met him first in his own home she 
would so quickly have fallen in love. But one look into 
his mocking yet tender eyes, one glance at his sensitive, 
full-lipped mouth, reassured her. She would, oh yes, she 
would! 

She addressed a sentence now and again to Finch, but 
it seemed hopeless to draw him into the conversation. He 
so plainly suffered when she attempted it that she gave 
up trying. 

As they got up from the table Eden, who was already 
cherishing a cigarette between his lips, turned to his 
brother as if struck with an idea. 

“Look here, Finch. I wish you’d show Alayne the 
pine grove. It’s wonderful on a morning like this. It’s 


i .74 JALNA 

deep and dark as a well in there, Alayne, and all around it 
grow brambles with the biggest, juiciest berries. Finch 
will get you some, and he ’ll likely be able to show you a 
partridge and her young. I ’ve got something in my head 
that I want to get out, and I must have solitude. You ’ll 
take care of her, won’t you, Finch?” 

In spite of the lightness of his tone, Alayne discovered 
the fire of creative desire in it. Her gaze eagerly ex¬ 
plored his face. Their eyes met in happy understanding. 

“ Do go off by yourself and write,” she agreed. “ I 
shall be quite content to wander about by myself if 
Finch has other plans.” 

She almost hoped he had. The thought of a tete-a- 
tete with this embarrassed hobbledehoy was not allur¬ 
ing. He drooped over his chair, his bony hands resting 
on the back, and stared at the disarranged table. 

“Well,” said Eden, sharply, “what are your plans, 
brother Finch?” 

Finch grinned sheepishly. “ I’d like to take her. Yes, 
thank you,” he replied, gripping the back of the chair 
till his knuckles turned white. 

“Good boy,” said Eden. He ran upstairs to get a 
sweater coat for Alayne, and she and Finch waited his 
return in absolute silence. Her mind was absorbed by 
the thought that Eden was going to write. He had said 
one day that he had an idea for a novel. Little tremors 
of excitement ran through her as she pictured him be¬ 
ginning it that very morning. She stood in the bow 
window looking out at the dark hemlocks, from which 
issued a continuous chirping as a flock of swallows 
gathered for their flight south. 

Rags was beginning to clear the table. His cynical 
light eyes took in every detail of Finch’s attire. They 
said to the boy, as plainly as words: “ Ho, ho, my young 
feller! You’ve decked yerself all up for the occasion, 


MORE ABOUT FINCH 


175 

’aven’t yer? You think you’ve made an impression on 
the lidy, don’t yer? But if you could only see yerself! 
And just you wait till the family catches you in your 
Sunday clothes. There won’t be nothink doing, ow 
naow! ” 

Finch regarded him uncomfortably. Was it possible 
that these thoughts were in Rags’s head, or did he just 
imagine it? Rags had such a secret sneering way with 
him. 

Eden followed them to the porch. They met Meg in the 
hall, and the two women kissed, but it was dim there and 
Finch, clearing his throat, laid one hand on the birthday 
necktie and concealed it. 

It was a day of days. As golden, as mature, as volup¬ 
tuous as a Roman matron fresh from the bath, the Oc¬ 
tober morning swept with indolent dignity across the 
land. Alayne said something like this to the boy as 
they followed a path over the meadows, and, though he 
made no reply, he smiled in a way that lighted up his 
plain face with such sudden sweetness that Alayne’s 
heart warmed to him. She talked without waiting for 
him to reply, till by degrees his shyness melted, and she 
found herself listening to him. He was telling her how 
this path that led through the birch wood was an old 
Indian trail, and how it led to the river six miles away 
where the traders and Indians had long ago been wont to 
meet to barter skins of fox and mink for ammunition 
and blankets. He was telling her of the old fiddler, 
“ Fiddler Jock,” who had had his hut in this wood be¬ 
fore the Whiteoaks had bought Jalna. 

“My grandad let him stay on. He used to play his 
fiddle at weddings and parties of all sorts. But one 
night some people gave him such a lot of drink before 
he started for his hut that he got dazed, and it was a 
bitterly cold night, and he could not find his way home 


176 JALNA 

through the snow. When he got as far as Grandad’s 
barnyard he gave up and he crawled into a straw stack 
and was frozen to death. Gran found him two days after 
when she was out for a walk. He was absolutely rigid, 
his frozen eyes staring out of his frozen face. Gran 
was a young woman then, but she’s never forgotten it. 
I’ve often heard her tell of finding him. She had Uncle 
Nick with her. He was only a little chap, but he’s never 
forgotten the way the old fellow had his fiddle gripped, 
just as though he’d been playing when he died.” 

Alayne looked curiously at the boy. His eyes had a 
hallucinated expression. He was evidently seeing in all 
its strangeness the scene he had just described. 

They had now entered the pine grove. A shadow had 
fallen over the brightness of the morning like the wing 
of a great bird. In here there was a cathedral hush, 
broken only by the distant calling of crows. They sat 
down on a fallen tree, on the trunk of which grew patches 
of moss of a peculiarly vivid green, a miniature forest in 
itself. 

“ I don’t believe I’d mind,” said Finch, “ going about 
with a fiddle and playing tunes at the weddings of coun¬ 
try people. It seems to me I’d like it.” Then he added, 
with a shade of bitterness in his tone, “I guess I’ve just 
the right amount of brains for that.” 

“I do not see why you should speak of yourself in that 
way,” exclaimed Alayne. “ You have a very interesting 
face.” She made the statement with conviction, though 
she had just discovered the fact. 

Finch made a sardonic grimace that was oddly reminis¬ 
cent of Uncle Nicholas. “ I dare say it’s interesting, and 
I shouldn’t be surprised if old fiddler Jock’s was in¬ 
teresting, especially when it was frozen stiff.” 

She felt almost repelled by the boy’s expression, but 
her interest in him was steadily growing. 


MORE ABOUT FINCH 


1 77 

“ Perhaps you are musical? Have you ever had les¬ 
sons?” 

“No. They’d think it a waste of money. And I 
have n’t the time for practising. It takes all my time to 
keep from the foot of the form.” 

He seemed determined to present himself in an un¬ 
prepossessing light to her. And this after all the anxious 
care over his toilet. Perhaps the truth was that, having 
seen a gleam of sympathy in her eyes, he was hungry for 
more of it. But it was difficult to account for the re¬ 
actions of Finch Whiteoak. 

Alayne saw in him a boy treated with clumsy stupidity 
by his family. She saw herself fiercely taking up cudgels 
for him. She was determined that he should have music 
lessons if her influence could bring them about. She 
drew him on to talk, and he lay on the ground, sifting 
the pine needles through his fingers and giving his con¬ 
fidence more freely than he had ever given it before. But 
even while he talked with boyish eagerness, his mind 
more than once escaped its leash and ran panting after 
strange visions. Himself, alone with her in this dark 
mysterious place, embracing her with ecstasy, not with 
the careless passion of Renny’s caressing of the strange 
woman. After one of these excursions of the mind he 
would draw himself up sharply and try to look into her 
eyes with the same expression of friendly candor which 
she gave him. 

As they were returning to the house and Alayne’s 
thoughts were flying back to Eden, they came upon a 
group in the orchard consisting of Piers and several farm 
laborers, who, under his supervision, were preparing a 
number of barrels of apples for shipment. Piers, with 
a piece of chalk in his sunburned hand, was going about 
marking the barrels with the number of their grade. 
He pretended not to notice the approach of his brother 


178 JALNA 

and Alayne, but when he could no longer ignore them he 
muttered a sulky “ Good morning,” and turned to one of 
the laborers with some directions about carting the apples 
to the station. 

Finch led Alayne from barrel to barrel with a self¬ 
consciously possessive air, knowing that the farm hands 
were regarding them with furtive curiosity. He ex¬ 
plained the system of grading to her, bringing for com¬ 
parison apples from the different barrels. He asked her 
to test the flavor of the most perfect specimen he could 
find, glossy, red, and flawless as a drop of dew. 

“Mind that you replace that apple, Finch,” said Piers 
curtly in passing. “You should know better than to 
disturb apples after they are packed. They’ll be ab¬ 
solutely rattling about by the time they reach Montreal.” 
He took a hammer from one of the men and began with 
deafening blows to “ head in ” a barrel. 

Finch noticed Alayne’s discomposure, and his own 
color rose angrily as he did as he was bid. When they 
had left the orchard Alayne asked: “ Do you think Piers 
dislikes me ? ” 

“ No. It’s just his way. He’s got a beastly way with 
him. I don’t suppose he dislikes me, but sometimes — ” 
He could not finish what he had been going to say. One 
could n’t tell Alayne the things Piers did. 

Alayne continued reflectively: — 

“And his wife — I just noticed her a moment ago 
disappearing into the shrubbery when she saw us ap¬ 
proach. I am afraid she does not approve of me either.” 

“Look here,” cried Finch, “Pheasant’s shy. She 
doesn’t know what to say to you.” But in his heart 
he believed that both Piers and Pheasant were jealous of 
Alayne. 

He parted with her at the front door and went himself 
to the side entrance, for he was afraid of meeting his 


MORE ABOUT FINCH 


179 

sister. He entered a little washroom next the kitchen 
— which served as a sort of downstairs lavatory for the 
brothers—to wash his hands. The instant he opened the 
door he discovered Piers already there, but it was not 
possible to retreat, for Piers had seen him. He was 
washing before going to the station with the fruit. His 
healthy face, still red from the towel, took on an un¬ 
pleasant sneer. 

“ Well,” he observed, “ of all the asses I ’ve ever known! 
The suit — the tie — the hair — good Lord! Has she 
taken you on as her dancing partner ? Or what is your 
particular capacity? Pheasant and I want to know.” 

“Let me alone,” growled Finch, moving toward the 
basin and twitching up his cuffs. “ Somebody has to be 
decent to the girl, I guess.” 

Piers, drying his hands, moved close to him, survey¬ 
ing him jocularly. 

“ The tie, the hair, ‘ the skin you love to touch,’ ” he 
chuckled. “You are all the toilet advertisements rolled 
into one, are n’t you ? ” 

Finch, breathing heavily, went on lathering his hands. 

Piers assumed the peculiarly irritating smile charac¬ 
teristic of Mr. Wragge. 

“ I do ’ope,” he said, unctuously, “ that the young lidy 
appreciates all your hefforts to be doggish, sir.” 

Goaded beyond bearing, Finch wheeled, and slapped 
a handful of soapy water full in his brother’s face. A 
moment later Renny, entering the washroom, found 
young Finch sprawling on the floor, the birthday tie 
ruined by a trickle of blood from his nose. 

“What’s this?” demanded the eldest Whiteoak, 
sternly looking first at the recumbent figure, then at the 
erect, threatening one. 

“He’s too damned fresh,” returned Piers. “I was 
chaffing him about dressing up as though he were going 


180 JALNA 

to a party when he was escorting Eden’s wife to the 
bush, and he threw some dirty water in my face, so I 
knocked him down.” 

Renny took in the boy’s costume with a grin, then 
he gently prodded him with his boot. 

“Get up,” he ordered, “and change out of that suit 
before it’s mussed up.” 

When Finch had gone, he turned to Piers and asked: 
“Where is Eden this morning?” 

“Oh, he’s writing in the summerhouse, with a few 
sprays of lilies of the valley on the table beside him. 
Pheasant peeked in and saw him. I expect it’s another 
masterpiece.” 

Renny snorted, and the two went out together. 


XVI 

“ IN THE PLACE WHERE THE TREE 
FALLETH ” 

Alayne found Eden in the summerhouse, a vine- 
smothered, spiderish retreat, with a very literary-looking 
pipe in his mouth, his arms folded across his chest, and 
a thoughtful frown indenting his brow. 

“ May I come ? ” she breathed, fearing to disturb him, 
yet unable to endure the separation any longer. 

He smiled an assent, gripping the pipe between his 
teeth. 

“Have you begun the — you know what?” 

“ I do not know what. 5 ’ 

“The n-o-v-e- 1 ,” she spelled. 

He shook his head. “No; but I’ve written a corking 
thing. Come in and hear.” 

“ A poem! I am so glad you are really beginning to 
write again. It is the first, you know, since we have been 
married, and I was beginning to be afraid that instead 
of being an inspiration — ” 

“Well, listen to this and tell me whether I’m the 
better or worse for being married.” 

“ Before you begin, Eden, I should just like to remark 
the way the sunlight coming in through those vines 
dapples your hair and cheek with gold.” 

“Yes, darling, and if you had been here all morning 
you might have remarked how the insect life took to me. 
They let themselves down from every corner and held 
a sort of County Fair on me, judging spider stallions, fat 
ladybugs’ race, and earwig baby show. In each case the 
first, second, third, and consolation prize was a bite of me.” 


182 JALNA 

“You poor lamb,” said Alayne, settling herself on the 
bench beside him, her head on his shoulder. " How you 
suffer for your art! ” She searched his face for the mark 
of a bite, and, really finding one on his temple, she kissed 
it tenderly. 

“ Now for the poem,” he exclaimed. He read it, and 
it gained not a little from his mellow voice and expres¬ 
sive, mobile face. Alayne was somewhat disconcerted to 
find that she had no longer the power to regard his writing 
judicially. She now saw it colored by the atmosphere of 
Jalna, tempered by the contacts of their life together. 
She asked him to read it again, and this time she closed 
her eyes that she might not see him, but every line of his 
face and form was before her still, as though her gaze 
were fixed on him. 

“ It is splendid,” she said, and she took it from him 
and read it to herself. She was convinced that it was 
splendid, but her conviction did not have the same austere 
clarity that it had carried when she was in New York 
and he an unknown young poet in Canada. 

After that Eden spent each morning in the summer¬ 
house, not seeming to mind the increasing dampness and 
chill as the autumn drew on. The Whiteoaks seemed to 
be able to endure an unconscionable amount of either 
heat or cold. Alayne began to be accustomed to these 
extremes of temperature, to an evening spent before the 
blistering heat of the drawing-room fire, and a retiring 
to a bedroom so chill that her fingers grew numb before 
she was undressed. 

From the summerhouse issued a stream of graceful, 
carelessly buoyant lyrics like young birds. Indeed, Piers 
with brutal jocularity remarked to Renny that Eden 
was like a sparrow, hatching out an egg a day in his 
lousy nest under the vines. 

It became the custom for Eden, Alayne, Ernest, and 


WHERE THE TREE FALLETH 183 

Nicholas to gather in the latter’s room every afternoon 
to hear what Eden had composed that morning. The 
four became delightfully intimate in this way, and they 
frequently — Nicholas making his leg an excuse for this 
— had Rags bring their tea there. As Grandmother 
could not climb the stairs, Alayne felt joyously certain 
of no intrusions from her. The girl found almost past 
endurance the old lady’s way of breaking her cake into 
her tea and eating it from a spoon with the most aggra¬ 
vating snortlings and gurglings. It was pleasant to pour 
the tea in Nicholas’s room for the three men from an 
old blue Coalport teapot that wore a heathenish woolly 
“cozy”; and after tea Nicholas would limp to the piano 
and play from Mendelssohn, Mozart, or Liszt. 

Alayne never forgot those afternoons, the late sun¬ 
shine touching with a mellow glow the massive head and 
bent shoulders of Nicholas at the piano, Ernest shadowy 
in a dim corner with Sasha, Eden beside her, strong in 
his shapely youth. She grew to know the two elderly 
men as she knew no other member of Eden’s family ex¬ 
cept poor young Finch. They seemed close to her; she 
grew to love them. 

Piers, when Meg told him of these meetings, was dis¬ 
gusted. They made him sick with their poetry and 
music. He pictured his two old uncles gloating imag¬ 
inatively over Alayne’s sleek young womanhood. Eden, 
he thought, was a good-for-nothing idler — a sponger. 
Meggie herself did not want to join the quartette in 
Uncle Nick’s room. It was not the sort of thing she 
cared about. But she did rather resent the air of in¬ 
timacy which was apparent between the uncles and 
Alayne, an intimacy which she had not achieved with the 
girl. Not that she had made any great effort to do so. 
Persistent effort, either mental or physical, was distaste¬ 
ful to Meg, yet she could, when occasion demanded, get 


184 JALNA 

her own way by merely exerting her power of passive 
stubbornness. But passive stubbornness will not win a 
friend, and as a matter of fact Meg did not greatly desire 
the love of Alayne. She rather liked her, though she 
found her hard to talk to, — “terribly different,” — and 
she told her grandmother that Alayne was a “typical 
American girl.” “I won’t have it,” Grandmother had 
growled, getting very red, and Meg had hastened to add, 
“ But she’s very agreeable, Gran, and what a blessing it 
is that she has money! ” 

To be sure, there was no sign of an excess of wealth. 
Alayne dressed charmingly, but with extreme simplicity. 
She had shown no disposition to shower gifts upon the 
family, yet the family, with the exception of Renny 
and Piers, were convinced that she was a young woman 
of fortune. Piers did not believe it, simply because he 
did not want to believe it; Renny had cornered Eden 
soon after his return and had wrested from him the un¬ 
romantic fact that he had married a girl of the slenderest 
means, and had come home for a visit while he “ looked 
about him.” And so strong was the patriarchal instinct 
in the eldest Whiteoak that Eden and Alayne might have 
lived on at Jalna for the rest of their lives without his 
doing more than order Eden to help Piers on the 
estate. 

On one occasion Eden did spend a morning in the 
orchard grading apples, but Piers, examining the last of 
the consignment and finding the grading erratic, to say 
the least of it, had leaped in a fury into his Ford and 
rushed to the station, where he had spent the rest of the 
day in a railway car, wrenching the tops from barrels and 
regrading them. There had been a family row after 
this, with Renny and Pheasant on the side of Piers, and 
the rest of the family banded to protect Eden. They 
had the grace to wait till Alayne went to bed before be- 


WHERE THE TREE FALLETH 


185 

ginning it. She had gone to her room early that night, 
feeling something electric in the air, and no sooner had 
her door closed than the storm burst forth below. 

She had been brought up in an atmosphere of a home 
peaceful as a nest of doves, and this sudden transplanting 
into the noisy raillery and hawklike dissensions of the 
Whiteoaks bewildered her. Up in her room she quaked 
at the thought of her oddness among these people. When 
Eden came up an hour later he seemed exhilarated rather 
than depressed by the squall. He sat on the side of the 
bed, smoking endless cigarettes, and told her what this 
one had said and how he had squelched that one, and 
how Gran had thrown her velvet bag in Renny’s face; 
and Alayne listened, languid in the reassurance of his 
love. He even sat down at his desk before he came to 
bed and wrote a wild and joyous poem about a gypsy 
girl, and came back to the bed and read it loudly and 
splendidly, and Nip, in Uncle Nick’s room across the hall, 
started up a terrific yapping. 

One of Eden’s cigarette stubs had burned a hole in the 
quilt. 

Lying awake long afterward, while Eden slept peace¬ 
fully beside her, Alayne wondered if she could be the 
same girl who had labored over her father’s book and 
paid decorous little visits to her aunts up the Hudson. 
She wondered, with a feeling of apprehension, when 
Eden was going to bestir himself to get a position. After 
the affair of the apples he spent more and more time in 
the summerhouse, for he had begun another long nar¬ 
rative poem. Proof sheets of his new book had arrived 
from New York, and they demanded their share of his 
time. 

Alayne, who was supposed to be the inspiration of this 
fresh wellspring of poetry, found that during the fierce 
hours of composition the most helpful thing she c.ould 


186 


JALNA 


do for the young poet was to keep as far away from him 
as possible. She explored every field and grove of Jalna, 
followed the stream in all its turnings, and pressed her 
way through thicket and bramble to the deepest part of 
the ravine. She came to love the great unwieldy place, 
of which the only part kept in order was the farm run 
by Piers. Sometimes Finch or Wakefield accompanied 
her, but more often she was alone. 

On one of the last days of autumn she came upon 
Pheasant, sitting with a book in the orchard. It was 
one of those days so still that the very moving of the 
sphere seemed audible. The sun was a faint blur of red 
in the hazy heaven, and in the north the smoke of a 
distant forest fire made a sullen gesture. This conflagra¬ 
tion far away seemed to be consuming 4he very corpse 
of summer, which, being dead indeed, felt no pain in 
the final effacement. 

Pheasant was sitting with her back against the bole of 
a gnarled old apple tree, the apples of which had not 
been gathered but were lying scattered on the grass about 
her. The ciderish smell of their decay was more notice¬ 
able here than the acrid smell of smoke. The young 
girl had thrown down her book and, with head tilted back 
and eyes closed, was more than half asleep. Alayne 
stood beside her, looking down at her, but Pheasant did 
not stir, exposing her face to the gaze of the almost 
stranger with the wistful unconcern of those who slum¬ 
ber. It seemed to Alayne that she had never before really 
seen this child — for she was little more than a child. 
With her cropped brown head, softly parted lips, and 
childish hands with their limply upturned palms, she was 
a different being from the secretive, pale girl always 
on her guard, whom Alayne met at table and in the 
drawing-room at cards. Then she seemed quite able to 
take care of herself, even faintly hostile in her attitude. 


WHERE THE TREE FALLETH 187 

Now, in this relaxed and passive pose, she seemed to ask 
for compassion and tenderness. 

As Alayne was about to turn away, Pheasant opened 
her eyes, and, finding Alayne’s eyes looking down into 
them with an expression of friendliness, she smiled as 
though she could not help herself. 

“Hullo,” she said, with boyish brevity. “You caught 
me asleep.” 

“ I hope I did not waken you.” 

“Oh, I was only cat-napping. This air makes you 
drowsy.” 

“May I sit down beside you?” Alayne asked, with a 
sudden desire to get better acquainted with the young girl. 

“Of course.” Her tone was indifferent, but not un¬ 
friendly. She picked up her hat, which was half full of 
mushrooms, and displayed them. “ I was gathering 
these,” she said, “ for Piers’s breakfast. He can eat this 
many all himself.” 

“ But aren’t you afraid you will pick poison ones? I 
should be.” 

Pheasant smiled scornfully. “I’ve been gathering 
mushrooms all my life. These are all alike. The orchard 
kind. Except this dear little pink one. I shall give it to 
Wake. It’s got a funny smoky taste and he likes it.” 
She twirled the pink mushroom in her slim brown 
fingers. “ In the pine woods I get lots of morels. Piers 
likes them, too, only not so well. Piers thinks it’s won¬ 
derful the way I can always find them. Pie has them for 
breakfast almost every morning.” 

Everything was in terms of Piers. Alayne asked: — 

“What is your book? Not so interesting as the mush¬ 
rooms ? ” 

“It’s very good. It belongs to Piers. One of Jules 
Verne’s.” 

Alayne had hoped that they might talk about the book, 


188 JALNA 

but she had read nothing of Jules Verne. She asked 
instead: — 

“ Have you known Piers many years ? I suppose you 
have, for you were neighbors, were n’t you ? ” 

Pheasant stiffened. She did not answer for a mo¬ 
ment, but bent forward plucking at the coarse orchard 
grass. Then she said in a low voice, “I suppose Eden 
has told you about me.” 

“ Nothing except that you were a neighbor’s daughter.” 

“Come, now. Don’t hedge. The others did, then. 
Meg—Gran — Uncle Nick?” 

“ No one,” answered Alayne firmly, “ has told me any¬ 
thing about you.” 

“Humph. They’re a funny lot. I made sure they’d 
tell you first thing.” She mused a moment, biting a blade 
of grass, and then added: “I suppose they didn’t want 
to tell you anything so shocking. You ’re so frightfully 
proper, and all that.” 

“Am I?” returned Alayne, rather nettled. 

“Well, aren’t you?” 

“ I had not thought about it.” 

“ It was one of the first things I noticed about you.” 

“ I hope it hasn’t turned you against me,” said Alayne, 
lightly. 

Pheasant reflected, and said she did not think so. 

“Then what is it?” persisted Alayne, her tone still 
light, but her face becoming very serious. 

Pheasant picked up one of the misshapen apples of the 
old tree and balanced it on her palm. 

“Oh, you’re different; that’s the principal thing. You 
don’t seem to know anything about real life.” 

Alayne could have laughed aloud at the answer, that 
this ignorant little country girl should doubt her experi¬ 
ence of life. Yet it was true enough that she did not 
know life as they in this backwater knew it, where no 


WHERE THE TREE FALLETH 189 

outside contacts modified the pungent vitality of their 
relations with each other. 

She sat a moment in thought and then she said, 
gently: — 

“ You are mistaken if you think that I should be easily 
upset by anything you would care to tell me. Not that 
I want to urge your confidence.” 

“Oh, it’s not a matter of confidence,” exclaimed 
Pheasant. “Everybody in the world knows it but you, 
and of course you ’ll hear it sooner or later, so I may as 
well tell you.” 

She laid the apple on the grass, and, clasping her ankles 
in her brown hands, sat upright, with the air of a pre¬ 
cocious child, and announced: “I’m illegitimate — 
what Gran in her old-fashioned way calls a bastard. 
There you are.” A bright color dyed her cheeks, but she 
flung out the words with pathetic bravado. 

“I am sorry,” murmured Alayne, “but you do not 
suppose that that will affect my feelings for you, do you ? ” 

“ It does most people’s.” The answer came in a low 
husky voice, and she went on hurriedly: “ My father was 
the only child of an English colonel. His parents doted 
on him. He was the delight of their old age. My mother 
was a common country girl and she left me on their 
doorstep with a note, exactly the way they do in books. 
They took me in and kept me, but it broke the old peo¬ 
ple’s hearts. They died not long after. My father — ” 

“Did you live with him?” Alayne tried to make it 
easier for her by a tone of unconcern, but her eyes were 
filled with tears of pity for the child who in such quaint 
phraseology—“the delight of their old age,” indeed — 
told of the tragedy of her birth. 

“Yes, till I was married. He just endured me. But 
I expect the sight of me was a constant reminder — of 
what he’d lost, I mean.” 


JALNA 


190 

“Lost?” 

“Yes, Meg Whiteoak. He’d been engaged to her, 
and she broke it off when I appeared on the scene. That’s 
why she has that glassy stare for me. All the Whiteoaks 
were against the marriage of course. It was adding 
insult to injury, you see.” 

“ Oh, my dear.” 

The significance of looks and chance phrases that had 
puzzled her became apparent. She was pierced by a 
vivid pain at the thought of all the unmerited suffering 
of Pheasant. 

“You have had rather a hard time, but surely that is 
all over. Meg cannot go on blaming you for what is not 
your fault, and I think the others are fond of you.” 

“ Oh, I don’t know.” 

“ I should be if you would let me.” Her hand moved 
across the grass to Pheasant’s. Their fingers intertwined. 

“ All right. But I warn you, I’m not a bit proper.” 

“ Perhaps I am not so proper as you think.” Their 
fingers were still warmly clutched. “ By the way, why 
doesn’t Piers like me? I feel that it will not be alto¬ 
gether simple to be your friend when he is so — well, 
distant.” 

“He is jealous of you — for my sake, I think. I just 
think that, mind you; he’s never said so. But I think 
he finds it pretty beastly that you should be thought so 
much of and me so little, and that you should be made so 
welcome and me so unwelcome, when after all we’re just 
two girls, except that you’re rich and I’m poor, and 
you’re legitimate and I’m up against the bar sinister, 
and Piers has always taken such an interest in the place 
and worked on it, and Eden only cares for poetry and 
having his own way.” 

Alayne was scarlet. Out of the tangle of words one 
phrase menaced her. She said, with a little gasp: “ What- 


WHERE THE TREE FALLETH 


191 

ever made you think I was rich? My dear child, I am 
poor — poor. My father was a college professor. You 
know they are poor enough, in all conscience.” 

“You may be what you call poor, but you’re rich to 
us,” answered Pheasant, sulkily. 

“Now listen,” continued Alayne, sternly. “My father 
left me five thousand dollars insurance, and a bungalow 
which I sold for fourteen thousand, which makes nine¬ 
teen thousand dollars. That is absolutely all. So you 
see how rich I am.” 

“ It sounds a lot,” said Pheasant, stolidly, and their 
hands parted and they both industriously plucked at the 
grass. 

The significance of other allusions was now made plain 
to Alayne. She frowned as she asked: “ What put such 
an idea into your head, Pheasant? Surely the rest of 
the family are not suffering from that hallucination.” 

“We all thought you were frightfully well off. I 
don’t know exactly how it came about — someone said — 
Gran said — no, Meg said it was — ” She stopped short, 
suddenly pulled up by a tardy caution. 

“Who said what?” insisted Alayne. 

“ I think it was Uncle Nick who said — ” 

“Said what?” 

“That it was a good thing that Eden—oh, bother, 
I can’t remember what he said. What does it matter, 
anyhow ? ” 

Alayne had to subdue a feeling of helpless anger be¬ 
fore she answered, quietly: “ It does not matter. But I 
want you not to have the notion that I am rich. It is 
ridiculous. It puts me in a false position. You knew 
that I worked for my living before I married Eden. Why 
did you think I did that?” 

“We knew it was publishing books. It didn’t seem 
like work.” 


i 9 2 jalna 

“ My child, I was not publishing. I only read manu¬ 
scripts for the publisher. Do you see the difference ? ” 

Pheasant stared at her uncomprehendingly, and Alayne, 
moved by a sudden impulse, put her arm about her and 
kissed her. “How silly of me to mind! May we be 
friends, then?” 

Pheasant’s body relaxed against her with the abandon 
of a child’s. “It’s lovely of you,” she breathed, “not 
to mind about my—” 

Alayne stopped her words with a kiss. “As though 
that were possible! And I hope Piers will feel less un¬ 
friendly to me when he knows everything.” 

Pheasant was watching over Alayne’s shoulder two 
figures that were approaching along the orchard path. 

“It’s Renny,” she said, “and Maurice. I wonder 
what they ’re up to. Renny’s got an axe.” 

The men were talking and laughing rather loudly over 
some joke, and did not see the girls at once. Alayne sat 
up and stroked her hair. 

“I’ll bet it is some war joke,” whispered Pheasant. 
“ They ’re always at it when they ’re together.” Pheasant 
took up an apple and rolled it in their direction. “ Hullo, 
Maurice, why such hilarity?” 

The two came up, Maurice removing his tweed cap. 
Renny, already bareheaded, nodded, the reminiscent grin 
fading from his face. 

“Alayne,” he said, “this is Maurice Vaughan, our 
nearest neighbor.” 

They shook hands, and Alayne, remembering having 
heard a reference to the fact that Vaughan drank a good 
deal, thought he showed it in his heavy eyes and relaxed 
mouth. He gave Pheasant a grudging smile, and then 
turned to Renny. 

“Is this the tree?” he asked. 

“Yes,” returned Renny, surveying it critically. 


WHERE THE TREE FALLETH 


193 


“ What are you going to do ? ” asked Alayne. 

“ Cut it down. It’s very old, and it’s rotting. It must 
make room for a new one.” 

Alayne was filled with dismay. To her the old apple 
tree was beautiful, standing strong and yet twisted with 
age in the golden October sunshine. From it seemed to 
emanate the spirit of all the seasons the tree had known, 
with their scents of fragile apple blossoms and April 
rains, of moist orchard earth and mellowing fruit. A 
lifetime of experience was recorded on its rugged trunk, 
the bark of which enfolded it in mossy layers, where a 
myriad tiny insects had their being. 

She asked, trying not to look too upset, for she was 
never certain when the Whiteoaks would be amused at 
what they thought soft-heartedness or affectation, “ Must 
it come down ? I was just thinking what a grand old tree 
it is. And it seems to have borne a good many apples.” 

“ It’s diseased,” returned Renny. “ Look at the shape 
of the apples. This orchard needs going over rather 
badly.” 

“ But this is only one tree and it is such a beautiful 
shape.” 

“ You must go over to the old orchard. You will find 
dozens like this there.” He pulled off his coat and began 
to roll up the sleeves from his lean, muscular arms. 
Alayne fancied that an added energy was given to his 
movements by her opposition. 

She said nothing more, but with a growing feeling of 
antagonism watched him pick up the axe and place the 
first blow against the stalwart trunk. She imagined the 
consternation among the insect life on the tree at that 
first shuddering shock, comparable to an earthquake on 
our own sphere. The tree itself stood with a detached 
air, only the slightest quiver stirring its glossy leaves. 
Another and another blow fell, and a wedge-shaped chip, 


194 JALNA 

fresh with sap, sprang out on to the grass. Renny swung 
the axe with ease, it and his arms moving in rhythmic 
accord. Another chip fell, and another, and the tree 
sent up a groaning sound, as the blows at last pene¬ 
trated its vitals. 

“ Oh, oh! Let me get my things/’ cried Pheasant, and 
would have darted forward to rescue her hat and mush¬ 
rooms had not Vaughan caught her by the wrist and 
jerked her out of the way. 

It seemed that the dignity of the gnarled old tree would 
never be shaken. At each blow a shiver ran through its 
far-spreading branches and, one by one, the remaining 
apples fell, but for a long time the great trunk and mas¬ 
sive primal limbs received the onslaughts of the axe with 
a sort of rugged disdain. At last, with a straining of its 
farthest roots, it crashed to the ground, creating a gust 
of air that was like the last fierce outgoing of breath from 
a dying man. 

Renny stood, lean, red-faced, triumphant, his head 
moist with sweat. He glanced shrewdly at Alayne and 
then turned to Vaughan. 

“A good job well done, eh, Maurice?” he asked. 
“ Can you give me a cigarette ? ” 

Vaughan produced a box, and Pheasant, without wait¬ 
ing to be asked, snatched one for herself and, with it 
between her lips, held up her face to Vaughan’s for a 
light 

“There’s a bold little baggage for you,” remarked 
Renny to Alayne, with an odd look of embarrassment. 

Pheasant blinked at Alayne through smoke. “Alayne 
knows I ’ve been badly brought up.” 

“ I think the result is delightful,” said Alayne, but she 
disapproved of Pheasant at that moment. 

Pheasant chuckled. “Do you hear that, Maurice? 
Are n’t you proud ? ” 


WHERE THE TREE FALLETH 


195 

“ Perhaps Alayne does n’t realize that he is your 
happy parent,” said Renny, taking the bull by the horns. 

Vaughan gave Alayne a smile, half sheepish, half 
defiant, and wholly, she thought, unprepossessing. “ I 
expect Mrs. Whiteoak has heard of all my evil doings,” 
he said. 

“ I did not connect you two in my mind at all. I only 
heard to-day — a few minutes ago — that Pheasant had 
a father living. I had stupidly got the idea that she was 
an orphan.” 

“I expect Maurice wishes I were, sometimes,” said 
Pheasant. “ I don’t mean that he wishes himself 
dead — ” 

“Why not?” asked Vaughan. 

“Oh, because it’s such fun being a man, even an ill- 
tempered one. I mean that he wishes he had no encum¬ 
brance in the shape of me.” 

“You encumber him no longer,” said Renny. “You 
encumber me; is n’t that so ? ” 

“ Will somebody please get my hat and book and mush¬ 
rooms?” pleaded the young girl. “They’re under the 
tree.” 

Renny began to draw aside the heavy branches, the 
upper ones of which were raised like arms in prayer. An 
acrid scent of crushed overripe apples rose from among 
them. His hands, when he had rescued the treasures, 
were covered by particles of bark and tiny terrified 
insects. 

Vaughan turned toward home, and Pheasant ran after 
him, showing, now that they were separated, a demon¬ 
strative affection toward him that baffled Renny who 
was not much given to speculation concerning the feel¬ 
ings of his fellows. 

As for Alayne, her mind was puzzled more and more 
by these new connections who were everything that her 


1 9 6 JALNA 

parents and her small circle of intimates were not. Even 
while their conduct placed her past life on a plane of 
dignity and reticence, their warmth and vigor made that 
life seem tame and even colorless. The response of her 
nature to the shock of this change in her environment 
was a variety of moods to which she had never before 
been accustomed. She had sudden sensations of depres¬ 
sion, tinged with foreboding, followed by unaccountable 
flights of gayety, when she felt that something passion¬ 
ately beautiful was about to happen to her. 

Renny, lighting a cigarette, looked at her gravely. 
“ Do you know/’ he said, “ I had no idea that you were 
so keen about that tree, or I should have left it as it was. 
Why didn’t you make me understand?” 

“ I did not want to make too much fuss, I thought 
you would think I was silly. Anyone who knew me at 
all well would have known how I felt about it. But 
then — you do not know me very well. I cannot blame 
you for that.” 

His gaze on her face became more intense. “I wish 
I did understand you. I’m better at understanding 
horses and dogs than women. I never understand them. 
Now, in this case, it wasn’t till the tree was down and 
I saw your face that I knew what it meant to you. Upon 
my word, I wouldn’t have taken anything — why, you 
looked positively tragic. You’ve no idea what a brute 
I feel.” He gave a rueful cut at the fallen tree to em¬ 
phasize his words. 

“ Oh, don’t! ” she exclaimed. “ Don’t hurt it again! ” 

He stood motionless among the broken branches, and 
she moved to his side. He attracted her. She wondered 
why she had never noticed before how striking he was. 
But then, she had never before seen him active among out¬ 
door things. She had seen him rather indifferently riding 
his roan horse. In the house she had thought of him as 


WHERE THE TREE FALLETH 


197 

rather morose and vigilant, though courteous when he 
was not irritated or excited by his family; and she had 
thought he held rather an inflated opinion of his own im¬ 
portance as head of the house. Now, axe in hand, with 
his narrow red head, his red foxlike face and piercing 
red-brown eyes, he seemed the very spirit of the woods 
and streams. Even his ears, she noticed, were pointed, 
and his hair grew in a point on his forehead. 

He, having thrown down the axe at her words of en¬ 
treaty, stood among the broken branches, motionless as 
a statue, with apparently a statue’s serene detachment 
under inspection. He scarcely seemed to breathe. 

One of those unaccountable soarings of the spirit to 
which she had of late been subject possessed her at 
this moment. Her whole being was moved by a strange 
exhilaration. The orchard, the surrounding fields, the 
autumn day, seemed but a painted background for the 
gesture of her own personality. She had moved to 
Renny’s side. Now, from a desire scarcely understood 
by herself, to prove by the sense of touch that she was 
really she and he was no one more faunlike than Renny 
Whiteoak, she laid her hand on his arm. He did not 
move, but his eyes slid toward her face with an odd, 
speculative look in them. He was faintly hostile, she 
believed, because of her supersensitiveness about the tree. 
She smiled up at him, trying to show that she was not 
feeling childishly aggrieved, and trying at the same time 
to hide that haunting and willful expectancy fluttering 
her nerves. 

The next moment she found herself in his arms with 
his lips against hers, and all her sensations crushed for 
the moment into helpless surrender. She felt the steady 
thud of his heart, and against it the wild tapping of her 
own. At last he released her and said, with a rather 
whimsical grimace: “Did you mind so much? I’m 


198 JALNA 

awfully sorry. I suppose you think me more of a brute 
than ever now.” 

“Oh,” she exclaimed quiveringly, “how could you do 
that? How could you think I would be willing — ” 

“ I did n’t think at all,” he said. “ I did it on the spur 
of the moment. You looked so — so — oh, I can’t think 
of a word to describe how you looked.” 

“ Please tell me. I wish to know,” she said icily. 

“Well — inviting, then.” 

“Do you mean consciously inviting?” There was a 
dangerous note in her voice. 

“Don’t be absurd! Unconsciously, of course. You 
simply made me forget myself. I’m sorry.” 

She was trembling all over. 

“Perhaps,” she said, courageously, “you were not 
much more to blame than I.” 

“My dear child — as though you could help the way 
you looked.” 

“Yes, but I went over to you, deliberately, when — 
oh, I cannot say it! ” Yet, perversely she wanted to say it. 

“When you knew you were looking especially lovely 
— is that what you mean?” 

“Not at all. It’s no use — I cannot say it.” 

“Why make the effort? I’m willing to take all the 
blame. After all, a kiss isn’t such a terrible thing, and 
I’m a relation. Men occasionally kiss their sisters-in- 
law. It will probably never happen again unless, as you 
say, you brazenly approach me when — what were you 
trying to say, Alayne? Now I come to think of it, I 
believe I have the right to know. It might save me some 
stabs of conscience.” 

“ Oh, you make it all seem ridiculous. You make me 
feel very childish — very stupid.” 

He had seated himself on the fallen tree. Now he 
raised his eyes contritely to hers. 


WHERE THE TREE FALLETH 


199 

“ Look here. That’s the last thing on earth I want to 
do. I’m only trying to get you not to take it too seriously, 
and I want all the blame.” 

Her earnest eyes now looked full into his, taking a 
great deal of courage, for his were sparkling, so full of 
interest in her, and at the same time so mocking. 

“ I see that I must tell you. It is this: I have had odd 
feelings lately of unrest, and a kind of anticipation, as 
though just around the corner some moving, thrilling ex¬ 
perience were waiting for me. This sensation makes me 
reckless. I felt it just before I moved toward you, and, 
I think —I think — ” 

“You think I was playing up to you?” 

“ Not quite that. But I think you felt something un¬ 
usual about me.” 

“I did, and I do. You’re not like any woman I’ve 
ever known. Tell me, have you thought of me as — 
caring for you, thinking a good deal about you ? ” 

“ I thought you rather disliked me. But please let us 
forget about all this. I never want to think of it again.” 

“Of course not,” he assented gravely. 

With a stab of almost physical pain, she remembered 
that she had half unconsciously kissed him back again. 
Her face and neck were dyed crimson. With a little 
gasp she said: “ Of the two I am the more to blame.” 

“Is this the New England conscience that I’ve heard 
so much about ? ” he asked, filled with amazement. 

“I suppose so.” 

He regarded her with the same half-mocking, half- 
quizzical look in his eyes, but his voice deepened. 

“Oh, my dear, you are a sweet thing! And to think 
that you are Eden’s wife, and that I must never kiss you 
again! ” 

She could not meet his eyes now. She was afraid of 
him, and still more afraid of herself. She felt that the 


200 JALNA 

strange expectancy of mood that had swayed her during 
these weeks at Jalna was nothing but the premonition of 
this moment. She said, trying to take herself in hand: — 

“I am going back to the house. I think I heard the 
stable clock strike. It must be dinner time.” She turned 
away and began to walk quickly over the rough orchard 
grass. 

It was significant of the eldest Whiteoak that he made 
no attempt to follow her, but sat with his eyes on her 
retreating form, confident that she would look back at 
him. As he expected, she turned after a dozen paces and 
regarded him with dignity but with a certain childlike 
pleading in her voice. 

“ Will you promise never to think of me as I have been 
this morning?” she asked. 

“Then I must promise never to think of you at all,” 
he returned with composure. 

“ Then never think of me. I should prefer that.” 

“ Come, Alayne, you know that’s impossible.” 

“Well, promise to forget this morning.” 

“It is forgotten already.” 

But, hurrying away through the orchard, she felt that 
if he could forget as easily as that it would be more ter¬ 
rible to her than if he had brooded on it in his most secret 
thoughts. 


XVII 

PILGRIM’S PROGRESS 

Alayne had been accustomed to church, but the sys¬ 
tematic upheaval of Sunday mornings at Jalna was a 
revelation to her. She had been used to the intellectual, 
somewhat detached worship of the Unitarian church, 
where, seated between her father and mother, she had 
followed reverently the minister’s meticulous analyzation 
of the teachings of the man Jesus. She had listened, in a 
church that rather resembled a splendid auditorium, to the 
unaccompanied singing of a superb quartette. She had 
seen collection plates all aflutter with crisp American 
bank notes, and been scarcely conscious of the large con¬ 
gregation of well-groomed, thoughtful men and women. 

When she had lived alone after the death of her par¬ 
ents, she had gone less regularly to church, attending the 
evening service rather than the morning, and when 
Rosamund Trent had come to live with her she had gone 
with still less regularity, for Rosamund was one of those 
who believe that churchgoing is for those who have noth¬ 
ing better to do. 

At Jalna there was an iron rule that every member 
of the family should attend morning service unless suf¬ 
fering from extreme physical disability. Being only half 
sick would not do at all. One must be prostrated. Alayne 
had seen Meg almost stumble into the motor, dazed from 
headache, a bottle of smelling salts held to her nose, and 
sit through the entire services with closed eyes. She had 
seen young Finch dragged off, regardless of a toothache. 

She was inclined to rebel at first, but when she found 
Eden slavishly acquiescent, she too succumbed. After all, 


202 JALNA 

she thought, there was something rather fine in such de¬ 
votion, even though religion seemed to play so small a 
part in it. For the Whiteoaks were not, according to 
Alayne’s standards, a religious family. In fact, she never 
heard the subject mentioned among them. She remem¬ 
bered the intelligent discussions on religious subjects in her 
father’s house: Would Science destroy Religion ? The quot¬ 
ing of Dean Inge, Professor Bury, Pasteur, and Huxley. 

The only mention of the Deity’s name at Jalna was 
when Grandmother mumbled an indistinguishable grace, 
or when one of the young men called on the Almighty 
to witness that he would do such and such a thing, or 
that something else was damned. Yet with what heroism 
they herded themselves into those hard adjacent pews 
each Sunday! 

Wakefield summed it all up for Alayne in these 
words: — 

“ You see, Grandfather built the church, and he never 
missed a Sunday till he died. Gran never misses a Sun¬ 
day, and she’s almost a hundred. She gets awfully sick 
if any of the rest of us stop home. And the rector and 
the farmers and other folk about count us every Sunday, 
and if one is missing, why, it doesn’t seem like Sunday to 
them at all.” The little boy’s eyes were shining. He 
was very much in earnest. 

Grandmother had never ridden in a motor car, and 
never expected to ride in one consciously. But she had 
given orders for the motor hearse from Stead to bear her 
body to her grave. “For,” she said, “I like to think 
I ’ll have one swift ride before I’m laid away.” 

The old phaeton was brought to the front steps every 
Sunday morning at half-past ten. The two old bay 
horses, Ned and Minnie, were freshly groomed, and the 
stout stableman, Hodge, wore a black broadcloth coat 
with a velvet collar. With his long whip fee flicked the 



PILGRIM’S PROGRESS 


203 

flies off the horses, and every moment cast an anxious 
look at the door and set his hat at a more Sundayish angle. 

At a quarter to eleven old Mrs. Whiteoak emerged, 
supported by Renny and Piers, for it needed plenty of 
muscle to negotiate the passage from her room to the 
phaeton. For church she always wore a black moire silk 
dress, a black velvet fur-trimmed cloak, and voluminous 
widow’s weeds of the heaviest crepe. Alayne thought 
that the old lady never looked so dignified, so courageous, 
as she did on these occasions, when, like some unseaworthy 
but gallant old ship, her widow’s veil billowing like a sail, 
she once again set forth from her harbor. When she was 
installed in a corner of the seat, with a cushion at her 
back, the old horses invariably made a forward plunge, 
for they were instantly aware of her arrival, and Rags 
as invariably, with a loud adjuration to Hodge to “ ’old 
’ard,” leaped to the horses’ heads with a great show of 
preventing a runaway. 

Her two sons next appeared: Nicholas, with a trace of 
his elegance of the old days; Ernest, mildly exhilarated, 
now that he had passed through the stage of preparation. 
The old phaeton creaked as their weight was simulta¬ 
neously added to its burden. Then came Meg, usually 
flustered over some misdeed of Wake’s or Finch’s. The 
little boy made the last of the phaeton party, climbing to 
the seat beside Hodge, and looking, in comparison with 
that burly figure, very small and dignified in his snowy 
Eton collar and kid gloves. 

The rest of the family followed in the motor car, ex¬ 
cepting Finch, who walked through fields and lanes. He 
preferred to do this because there was not room for him 
in either vehicle without squeezing, and it was hard 
enough for him to know what to do with his long legs 
and arms on ordinary occasions. He liked this Sunday 
walk by himself, alone with his own thoughts. 


204 JALNA 

Renny drove the car, and it was his chief concern to 
overtake and pass the phaeton as soon as possible, for if 
he did not accomplish this before the narrow sloping 
Evandale road was reached, it was probable that the rest 
of the drive would take place behind the slow-trotting 
horses, for Grandmother would not allow Hodge to 
move aside so that a motor might pass her on the road. 
She did not want to end her days in a ditch, she said. 
And she would sit with the utmost composure while 
Renny’s car, with perhaps half a dozen others behind it, 
moved at a funeral pace, urging her onward with despair¬ 
ing honkings of their horns. 

This morning was one such occasion. The drowsy 
Indian summer heat still continued, but the air had be¬ 
come heavier. The various odors from the earth and 
fields did not mingle or move about, but hung like pal¬ 
pable essences above the spot from which they rose. All 
objects were veiled in a thick yellowish haze, and the 
road dust stirred by the horses' hoofs descended in an 
opaque cloud on the motor behind. 

It was the morning after the scene in the orchard. 
Alayne had slept little. All night, as she lay tossing, 
changing sharply from one position to another as the 
recollection of Renny’s kisses made her cheeks burn and 
her nerves quiver, she had tried to see her position clearly, 
to ascertain whether she had been truly culpable or merely 
the passive object of Renny’s calculated passion. But 
here in Jalna she found that she could not think with 
the same freedom of initiative as formerly. Fantastic 
visions floated between her and the situation she was 
trying to puzzle out. At last, in the pale abnormal earth 
light before the dawn, a friendly languor enfolded her 
and she sank into a quiet sleep. 

Now, sitting behind Renny, she saw only the side of 
his face when he turned it momentarily toward Piers. 


PILGRIM’S PROGRESS 


205 

She saw his thin cheek bone, the patch of reddish hair 
at his temple, and the compressed line of his lip and chin. 
Had he slept soundly, giving scarcely a second thought to 
what had so disturbed her? He had not appeared at 
dinner, tea, or supper, sending a message to the house that 
he and Maurice Vaughan had gone together to a sale of 
horses. This morning the determination to pass his 
grandmother’s chariot before it reached the Evandale 
road seemed to absorb him. Pheasant had kept them 
waiting, and on her he threw a black look as she 
scrambled into the car. 

The engine balked, then started jarringly. Eden, 
sitting between the girls, took a hand of each and ex¬ 
claimed : “ Oh, my dears, let us cling together! We will 
come through this safely if we only cling together. Pheas¬ 
ant, give me your little paw.” 

But, speed though the eldest Whiteoak did, he could 
not overtake his grandmother before she reached the 
Evandale road. There was the phaeton creaking along 
in leisurely fashion in a cloud of yellow dust, resembling 
an old bark in a heavy fog, Grandmother’s veil stream¬ 
ing like a black pirate flag. 

Renny, with half-closed eyes, squinted down the road 
where it dropped steeply into a dusty ditch, gray with 
thistles. “ I believe I could get by,” he muttered to Piers. 
“ I’ve a mind to try.” 

The occupants of the phaeton recognized the peculiar 
squeakings of the family motor. They turned their heads, 
peering out of the dust fog like mariners sighting a hos¬ 
tile craft. Renny emphatically sounded his horn. 

They could hear Grandmother shout to Hodge. At 
once the two old horses were restrained to a walk. 

“By Judas!” exclaimed Renny. “I’d like to give the 
old lady a bump!” 

Again he cast his eyes along the narrow strip of road 


206 JALNA 

between the phaeton wheels and the ditch. “ I believe 
I’ll risk it,” he said. “ Just go by like the devil and give 
them a scare.” 

Piers protested: “You’ll put us headfirst into those 
thistles if you do. And you might frighten the nags.” 

“True,” said Renny, gloomily, and sounded his horn 
with passionate repetition. Grandmother’s face glared out 
of the fog. 

“ No back chat! ” she shouted; but it was evident that 
she was enjoying herself immensely. 

Farmer Tompkins and Farmer Gregg drew up their 
respective cars behind, and sounded their horns simul¬ 
taneously. The eldest Whiteoak frowned. It was all 
very well for him to torment his ancient relative, but 
these yokels should not. He slumped in his seat, resign¬ 
ing himself to the progress of a snail. He took off his 
hat. 

The sight of his narrow head suddenly bared, the 
pointed ears lying close against the closely cropped red 
hair, had a remarkable and devastating effect on Alayne. 
She wanted to reach forward, put a hand on either side of 
it and hold it tightly. She desired to stroke it, to caress 
it. She gave a frightened look toward Eden, as though 
to implore him to cast out these devils that were destroy¬ 
ing her. He smiled back encouragingly. “We shall 
arrive,” he said, “ in God’s good time. Behind us is Tomp¬ 
kins, who is a churchwarden, and he’s suffering torture at 
the thought of being late. I ’ve known him since I was 
three and he has only been twice late in all that time, and 
on each occasion it was Gran’s fault. Tompkins is much 
worse off than we are.” 

Alayne scarcely heard what he said, but she slipped her 
hand in his and clung to it. She was lost in speculation 
about what thoughts might be in that head toward which 
her hands were yearning. Were they of her, or had the 


PILGRIM’S PROGRESS 


20 7 


scene in the orchard been only one of many careless en¬ 
counters with women ? She believed that last was not so, 
for he had avoided the house for the rest of the day, 
and this morning had palpably avoided her. There was a 
sombre melancholy in his face as she caught a glimpse 
of his reflection in the little mirror before him. But 
perhaps that was only because he was baffled by old Mrs. 
Whiteoak. 

What had he done to her that had filled her with such 
unrest? She had got up in the night and crept to the 
window and, in the mystery of the moonlight, seen the 
orchard, and even been able to discern the curving bulk 
of the tree he had felled. She had felt again the hot pas¬ 
sion of his kisses. 

One thing of which she was keenly sensible this morn¬ 
ing was her new intimacy with Pheasant. Every time 
their eyes met, the young girl gave her a little smile, 
ingenuous as a child’s. Alayne even fancied that Piers 
was less surly with her than formerly. She had told Eden 
of the talk with Pheasant, and he had seemed rather 
amused at Alayne’s desire to make friends with her. 
“ She’s a dear quaint kid,” he had remarked. “ But 
she ’ll soon bore you. However, perhaps you ’re so bored 
already that even the company of Pheasant — ” 

“Nonsense,” she had interrupted, more shortly than 
she had ever before spoken to him. “I am not bored 
at all, but Pheasant attracts me. I think I could become 
very fond of her. She has unusual possibilities.” 

Now Eden sat between them, holding a hand of each 
and smiling tolerantly. He did not care if they never 
got to church. 

The bell was ringing as the car chugged up the steep 
little hill and passed through the gate behind the church. 
Heads of people mounting the precipitous steps at the 
front could be seen bobbing upward, as though ascending 


208 JALNA 

from a well. Golden sunshine lay like a caress on 
the irregular green mounds and mossgrown headstones 
of the churchyard. There was one new grave, on the 
fresh sandy top of which a wreath of drooping flowers 
lay. 

Wakefield came and put his hand into Alayne’s. 

“That’s Mrs. Miller’s grave,” he said. “She had a 
baby, and they’re both in there. Isn’t it terrible? It 
was a nice little girl and they’d named it Ruby Pearl. 
However, Miller has five girls left, so it might be 
worse.” 

“ Hush, dear,” said Alayne, squeezing his hand. “ Are 
you going to sit with me?” 

Wakefield had taken pride in sitting by Alayne and 
finding, with a great fluttering of leaves, the places in 
the prayer book for her. Now he looked doubtful. 

“I’d like to,” he said, “but I think Meggie feels 
lonely at my leaving her. You see, I’ve sat beside Jier 
ever since I was very little and used to go to sleep with 
my head on her lap. Look, they’re getting Granny out 
of the phaeton. I think I’d better rush over and see that 
the sexton’s holding the door wide open.” 

He flew across the grass. 

Old Mrs. Whiteoak shuffled, with scarcely perceptible 
progress, along the slat walk that led to the church door. 
Renny and Piers supported her, and Nicholas, Ernest, 
and Meg followed close behind, carrying her various bags, 
books, and cushions. Under her beetling rust-colored 
brows her piercing gaze swept the faces of those she 
passed. From side to side her massive old head moved 
with royal condescension. Sometimes her face was 
lighted by a smile, as she recognized an old friend, but 
this was seldom, for most of her friends were long dead. 
The smile flashed — the mordant and mischievous grin 
for which the Courts had been famous — at the Misses 


PILGRIM’S PROGRESS 


209 

Lacey, daughters of a retired British admiral. “ How’s 
your father, girls?” she panted. 

The “girls,” who were sixty-four and sixty-five, ex¬ 
claimed simultaneously: “Still bedridden, dear Mrs. 
Whiteoak, but so bright!” 

“ No right to be bedridden. He’s only ninety. How’s 
your mother?” 

“ Ah, dear Mrs. Whiteoak, Mamma has been dead nine 
years!” cried the sisters in unison. 

“God bless me, I forgot! I’m sorry.” She shuffled 
on. 

Now the grin was bestowed on a bent laborer nearly 
as old as herself, who stood, hat in hand, to greet her, the 
fringe of silvery hair that encircled his pink head min¬ 
gling with his patriarchal beard. He had driven Nicholas 
and Ernest about in their pony cart when they were little 
boys. 

“ Good morning, Hickson. Ha! These slats are hard 
to get over. Grip my arm tighter, Renny! Stop staring 
about like a fool, Piers, and hang on to me.” 

The old man pressed forward, showing his smooth 
gums in a smile of infantile complacence. 

“Mrs. Whiteoak, ma’am, I just am wantin’ to tell ye 
that I’ve got my first great-great-grandchild.” 

“Good for you, Hickson! You’re smarter than I 
am — I haven’t got even one great yet. Don’t drag at 
me, Piers. One would think I was a load of hay — ha! 
and you a cart horse. Tell Todd to stop clanging that 
bell. It’s deafening me. Ha! Now for the steps.” 

Eden and Alayne had fallen in behind Pheasant and 
Meg, who had Wakefield by the hand. Alayne wondered 
what the Corys and Rosamund Trent would have thought 
if they could have seen her at that moment, moving in 
that slow procession, rather like courtiers behind an an¬ 
cient queen. Already Alayne felt a family pride in the 


210 JALNA 

old lady. There was a certain fierce grandeur about her. 
Her nose was magnificent. She looked as though she 
should have a long record of intrigues, lovers, and duels 
behind her, yet she had been buried most of her life in 
this backwater. Ah, perhaps that was the secret of her 
strong individualism. The individualism of all the 
Whiteoaks. They thought, felt, and acted with Victorian 
intensity. They threw themselves into living, with un¬ 
studied sincerity. They did not philosophize about life, 
but no emotion was too timeworn, too stuffy, to be 
dragged forth by them and displayed with vigor and 
abandon. 

Now they were in the cool, dim church. 

The bell had ceased. They were ranged in two pews, 
one behind the other. Their heads, blond, brown, and 
gray, were bent. Grandmother’s great veil fell across 
Wake’s thin shoulders. She wheezed pathetically. 

Little Miss Pink at the organ broke into the processional 
hymn. Wakefield could see, between the forms of those 
grown-ups before him, the white-clad figure of Mr. 
Fennel. How different he looked on Sunday, with his 
beard all tidy and his hair parted with moist precision! 
And there was Renny, surpliced too. How had he got 
into the vestry and changed so quickly? A Whiteoak 
always read the Lessons. Grandfather had done it for 
years. Then Father had had his turn. And Uncle Ernest 
still read them sometimes when Renny was away — all 
the time Renny had been at the War. Would Wakefield 
ever read them himself, he wondered? He pictured him¬ 
self rolling out the words grandly, not in Renny’s curt, 
inexpressive way. 

A burst of melody rose from the Whiteoak pews. 
Strong voices, full of vitality, that bore down upon little 
Miss Pink and her organ like boisterous waves and swept 
them along, gasping and wheezing, while the choir tried 


PILGRIM’S PROGRESS 


211 


vainly to hold back. And even Renny in the chancel 
was against the choir and with the family. The choir, 
with the organ so weak and Miss Pink so vacillating, had 
no chance at all against the Whiteoaks. 

“ Rend your heart, and not your garments, and turn unto 
the Lord your God: for he is gracious and merciful, slow to 
anger, and of great kindness, and repenteth him of the evil.” 

Mr. Fennel’s voice was slow and sonorous. Heavy 
autumn sunshine lay in translucent planes across the 
kneeling people. Alayne had come to love this little 
church, its atmosphere of simplicity, of placid acceptance 
of all she questioned. She kept her eyes on the prayer book 
which Eden and she shared. Grandmother, in a husky 
whisper, directly behind them, was asking Meggie for a 
peppermint. When it was given to her she dropped it, 
and it rolled under the seat and was lost. She was given 
another, and sucked it triumphantly. The odors of the 
peppermint and of the stuff of her crepe veil were exuded 
from her. Wakefield dropped his collection money, and 
Uncle Nick tweaked his ear. Piers and Pheasant whis¬ 
pered, and Grandmother poked at Piers with her stick. 
Renny mounted the step behind the brass eagle of the 
lectern and began to read the First Lesson. 

“If the clouds be full of rain, they empty themselves upon 
the earth: and if the tree fall toward the south, or toward 
the north, in the place where the tree falleth, there it shall be. 

“ He that observeth the wind shall not sow; and he that 
regardeth the clouds shall not reap. 

“ As thou knowest not what is the way of the spirit, nor 
how the bones do grow in the womb of her that is with 
child: even so thou knowest not the works of God who 
maketh all.” 

The family stared at their chief as he read. 

Old Mrs. Whiteoak thought: “ A perfect Court! Look 
at that head, will you? My nose — my eyes. I wish 


212 JALNA 

Philip could see him. Ha, where’s my peppermint? 
Must have swallowed it. How far away the lad looks. 
He’s in his nightshirt — going to bed — time for bed—” 

She slept. 

Nicholas thought: “Renny’s wasted here. Ought to 
be having a gay time in London. Let’s see; he’s thirty- 
eight. When I was that age — God, I was just begin¬ 
ning to hate Millicent! What a life!” 

He heaved himself in his seat and eased his gouty knee. 

Ernest thought: “ Dear boy, how badly he reads! Still, 
his voice is arresting. I always enjoy old Ecclesiastes. 
I do hope there will not be plum tart for dinner — I shall 
be sure to eat it and sure to suffer. Mamma is dropping 
her peppermint — ” 

He whispered to her: “ Mamma, you are losing your 
peppermint.” 

Meg thought: “I wish Renny would not get such a 
close haircut. How splendid he looks. Really, what 
strange things the Bible says. But very true, of course. 
How sweet Wake looks! So interested. He has the 
loveliest eyelashes. He’s getting ready to kick Finch on 
the ankle — ” 

She bent over Wakefield, and laid a restraining hand 
on his leg. 

Renny’s vdice read on: — 

“Truly the light is sweet, and a pleasant thing it is for 
the eyes to behold the sun.” 

Eden thought: “He was a poet, the old chap who 
wrote that. 'Truly the light is sweet — and a pleasant 
thing it is for the eyes to behold — ’ Strange I never 
noticed before how lovely Pheasant is. Her profile—” 

He shifted his position a little, so that he might the 
better see it. 

Piers thought: “ I wonder if that piece of land needs 


PILGRIM’S PROGRESS 


213 

potash. I believe I ’ll try it. Don’t see what the dickens 
can be wrong- with the sick ewe. Walking in a circle, 
like a fool animal in a roundabout. Perhaps she’s got 
gid or sturdy. Must have the vet to her. Let’s see — 
fourteen and twenty-one is thirty-five, and seven is forty- 
two—owe Baxter forty-two. Pheasant daren’t look at 
me — little rogue — darling little kid — ” 

He pressed his knee against hers, and looked at her 
under his lashes. 

Pheasant thought: “ How big and brown Piers’s hands 
always look on Sunday! Regular fists. I like them that 
way, too. I wish Eden would n’t stare. I know perfectly 
well he’s thinking how dowdy I am beside Alayne. Oh, 
dear, how hard this seat gets! I shall never get used to 
churchgoing — I wasn’t caught young enough. My 
whole character was completely formed when I married. 
Neither Maurice nor I have any religion. How nice it 
was to see him yesterday in the orchard — quite friendly 
he was, too. Now religion — take Renny: there he stands 
in his surplice, reading out of the Bible, and yesterday I 
heard him swearing like a trooper just because a pig ran 
under his horse. To be sure, it nearly threw him, but 
then, what good is religion if it doesn’t teach forbear¬ 
ance ? I don’t think he is a bit better than Piers. I wish 
Piers would n’t try to make me smile.” 

She bit her lip and turned her head away. 

Wakefield thought: “ I do hope there ’ll be plum tart 
for dinner—if there isn’t plum tart, I hope there’ll be 
lemon tart. . . . But Mrs. Wragge was in a terrible 
temper this morning. How glad I am I was in the coal 
cellar when she and Rags had their row! Why, he called 
her a — hold on, no, I’d better not think of bad things 
in church. I might be struck dead — dead as a doornail, 
the very deadest thing. How pretty the lectern is — 
how beautifully Renny reads. Some day I shall read the 


214 JALNA 

Lessons just like that—only louder — that is, of course, 
if I live to grow up. By stretching my legs very far 
under the seat in front, I can kick Finch’s ankle. 
Now— Oh, bother Meggie, bother Meggie, always 
interfering— Bother her, I say!” 

He looked up innocently into his sister’s face. 

Finch thought: “To-morrow is the algebra exam, and 
I shall fail — I shall fail. ... If only my head did not 
get confused! If only I were more like Renny! Nothing 
in the world will ever tempt me to stand up behind the 
lectern and read the Lessons. What a beastly mess I’d 
make of it — ” 

He became conscious of the words his brother was 
reading. 

“Rejoice, O young man, in thy youth; and let thy heart 
cheer thee in the days of thy youth, and walk in the ways of 
thine heart, and in the sight of thine eyes: but know thou, 
that for all these things God will bring thee into judgment.” 

Finch twisted unhappily in his seat. Why these eternal 
threats? Life seemed compact of commands and threats 
— and the magic of the words in which these old, old 
threats were clothed. The dark, heavy foreboding. 
Magic — that was it: their magic held and terrified 
him. . . . If he could but escape from the cruel magic of 
words. If he could only have sat by Alayne, that he 
might have touched her dress as they knelt! 

He closed his eyes, and clenched his bony hands 
tightly on his thighs. 

Alayne thought: “How strange his brogues look 
under his surplice! I noticed this morning how worn 
and how polished they are — good-looking brogues. . . . 
How can I think of brogues when my mind is in tor¬ 
ment ? Am I growing to love him ? What shall I do in 
that case? Eden and I would have to leave Jalna. No, 
I do not love him. I will not let myself. He fascinates 


PILGRIM’S PROGRESS 


215 

me — that is all. I do not even like him. Rather, I dis¬ 
like him. Standing there before that brass thing, in his 
brogues — his red hair — the Court nose — that foxlike 
look — he is repellent to me.” 

She too closed her eyes, and pressed her fingers against 
them. 

“ Here endeth the First Lesson.” 

Then, with Miss Pink and the organ tremulously lead¬ 
ing the way and the choir fatuously fancying themselves 
masters of the situation, the Te Deum burst forth from 
every Whiteoak chest save Grandmother’s, and she was 
gustily blowing in a doze. From the deep baritone of 
Nicholas to the silver pipe of Wake, they informed the 
heavens and the earth that they praised the Lord and 
called Him Holy. 

That night, after the nine o’clock supper of cold beef 
and bread and tea, with oatmeal scones and milk for 
Grandmother and Ernest (who, alas, had partaken of 
plum tart at dinner as he feared), Meg said to Alayne: 
“ Is it true, Alayne, that Unitarians do not believe in the 
divinity of Christ?” 

“What’s that?” interrupted Grandmother. “What’s 
that?” 

“The divinity of Christ, Gran. Mrs. Fennel was tell¬ 
ing me yesterday that Unitarians do not believe in the 
divinity of Christ.” 

“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Whiteoak. “Rubbish. I won’t 
have it. More milk, Meggie.” 

“ I suppose you do not believe in the Virgin Birth, 
either,” continued Meg, pouring out the milk. “ In that 
case, you will not find the Church of England congenial.” 

“I like the service of your church very much,” said 
Alayne, guardedly. There had been something that 
savored of an attack in this sudden question. 


216 JALNA 

“Of course she does,” said Mrs. Whiteoak, heartily. 
“ She’s a good girl. Believes what she ought to believe. 
And no nonsense. She’s not a heathen. She’s not a 
Jew. Not believe in the Virgin Birth? Never heard of 
such a thing in decent society. It’s not respectable.” 

“Why talk of religion?” said Nicholas. “Tell us a 
story, Mamma. One of your stories, you know.” 

His mother cocked an eyebrow at him. Then, look¬ 
ing down her nose, she tried to remember a risque story. 
She had had quite a store of these, but one by one they 
were slipping her memory. 

“ The one about the curate on his holiday,” suggested 
Nicholas, like a dutiful son. 

“Nick!” remonstrated Ernest. 

“Yes, yes,” said the old lady. “This curate had 
worked for years and years without a holiday. And — 
and — oh, dear, what comes next?” 

“Another curate,” prompted Nicholas, “who was also 
overworked.” 

“ I think the boys should go to bed,” said Meg, ner¬ 
vously. 

“ She ’ll never remember it,” replied Renny, with calm. 

“Oh, Wakefield is playing with the Indian curios!” 
cried Meg. “ Do stop him, Renny! ” 

Renny took the child forcibly from the cabinet, gave 
him a gentle cuff, and turned him toward the door. 
“ Now, to bed,” he ordered. 

“Let him say good-night, first!” shouted Grand¬ 
mother. “ Poor little darling, he wants to kiss his Gran 
good-night.” 

Boney, disturbed from slumber, rocked on his perch 
and screamed in far-away nasal tones: — 

“ Ka butcha! Ka butcha! Haramzada! ” 

Wakefield made the rounds, distributing kisses and 
hugs with a nice gauging of the character of the recipient. 


PILGRIM’S PROGRESS 


217 


They ranged in all varieties, from a bearlike hug and 
smack to Gran, to a courteous caress to Alayne, a perfunc¬ 
tory offering of his olive cheek to his brothers, except 
Finch, to whom he administered a punch in the stomach 
which was returned by a sly but wicked dig in the short 
rib. 

The Whiteoaks had a vocation for kissing. Alayne 
thought of that as she watched the youngest Whiteoak 
saluting the family. They kissed upon the slightest prov¬ 
ocation. Indeed, the grandmother would frequently, on 
awakening from a doze, cry out pathetically: — 

“ Kiss me, somebody, quick! ” 

Ah, perhaps Renny had regarded the kissing of her in 
the orchard as a light thing! 

A sudden impulse drew her to him where he stood 
before the cabinet of curios, a little ivory ape in his hand. 

“I want to speak to you about Finch,” she said, 
steadily. 

The light was dim in that corner. Renny scanned her 
face furtively. 

“Yes?” 

“ I like him very much. He is an unusual boy. And he 
is at a difficult age. There is something I should like you 
to do for him.” 

He regarded her suspiciously. What was the girl up 
to? 

“Yes?” His tone was mildly questioning. 

“ I want you to give him music lessons. Music would 
be splendid for him. He is a very interesting boy, and he 
needs some outlet besides geometry and things like that. 
I am sure you will not be sorry if you do it. Finch is 
worth taking a great deal of trouble for.” 

He looked genuinely surprised. 

“Really? I always thought him rather a dull young 
whelp. And no good at athletics, either. That would 


218 JALNA 

be some excuse for being at the bottom of his form most 
of the time. None of us think of him as * interesting.’ ” 

“That is just the trouble. Every one of you thinks 
the same about Finch, and in consequence he feels him¬ 
self inferior — the ugly duckling. You are like a flock 
of sheep, all jumping the one way.” 

Her enthusiasm for Finch made her forget her usual 
dignified reticence, and with it her embarrassment. She 
looked at him squarely and accusingly. 

“And you look on me as the bellwether, eh? If you 
turn my woolly wooden head in another direction, the 
others will follow. I am to believe that Finch will turn 
out to be the swan then ? ” 

“I should not be surprised.” 

“And you think his soul needs scales and finger exer¬ 
cises ? ” 

“ Please do not make fun of me. ” 

“I shall have the family in my wool, you know. 
They’ll hate the strumming.” 

“ They will get used to it. Finch is important, though 
none of you may think so.” 

“ What makes you sure he has musical talent ? ” 

“ I am not sure. But I know he appreciates music, and 
I think he is worth the experiment. Did you ever watch 
his face when your uncle Nicholas is playing?” 

“No.” 

“Well, he is playing now. From here you can see 
Finch quite clearly. Isn’t his expression beautiful, re¬ 
vealing?” 

Renny stared across the room at his young brother. 

“He looks rather idiotic to me,” he said, “with his 
jaw dropped and his head stuck forward.” 

“ Oh, you are hopeless! ” she said, angrily. 

“No, I’m not. He’s going to have his music and I 
am going to endure the curses of the family. But for 


PILGRIM’S PROGRESS 


219 

my life and soul I can’t see anything of promise in him 
at this moment. Now Uncle Nick, with the lamplight 
falling on that gray lion’s head of his, looks rather 
splendid.” 

“But Finch — don’t you see the look in his eyes? If 
only you could understand him — be a friend to him—” 
Her eyes were pleading. 

“ What a troubled little thing you are! I believe you 
do a lot of worrying. Perhaps you are even worrying 
about me?” He turned his intense gaze into her eyes. 

Deep chords from the piano, Grandmother and Boney 
making love to each other in Hindu. The yellow lamp¬ 
light, which left the corners of the room in mysteri¬ 
ous shadow, isolated them, giving the low tones of 
their voices a significance that their words did not 
express. 

A passionate unrest seized upon her. The walls of the 
room seemed to be pressing in on her; the group of people 
yonder, stolid, inflexible, full-blooded, arrogant, seemed 
to be crushing her individuality. She wanted to snatch 
the ivory ape from Renny’s hands and hurl it into their 
midst, frightening them, making the parrot scream and 
squawk. 

Yet she had just been granted a favor that lay near 
her heart: music for poor young Finch. 

The contradictions of her temperament puzzled and 
amused the eldest Whiteoak. He discovered that he 
liked to startle her. Her unworldliness, as he knew the 
world, her reticence, her honesty, her academic ardors, 
her priggishness, the palpable passion that lay beneath all 
these, made her an object of calculated sexual interest 
to him. At the same time he felt an almost tender solic¬ 
itude for her. He did not want to see her hurt, and he 
wondered how long it would be before Eden would most 
certainly hurt her. 


220 JALNA 

“ I have forgotten yesterday, as I promised. Have you 
forgiven? ” 

“Yes,” she returned, and her heart began to beat 
heavily. 

“ But giving Finch those music lessons will never make 
up for cutting down the tree, I’m afraid. You ’ve made 
me very tender-hearted.” 

“Are you sorry for that?” 

“Yes. I have especial need of hardness just now.” 

The parrot screamed: “Chore! Chore! Haramzada! 
Chore! ” 

“ What are you two talking about ? ” shouted Grand¬ 
mother. 

“ Eastern lore,” replied her grandson. 

“Did you say the War? I like to hear about the War 
as well as anyone. Do you know the Buffs, Alayne? 
That was Renny’s regiment. Did your country go to 
war, Alayne?” 

“Yes, Mrs. Whiteoak.” 

“Yes, Gran, please!” 

“Yes, Gran.” 

“Ah, I hadn’t heard of it. Renny was in the Buffs. 
One of the most famous regiments in England. Ever 
hear of the Buffs, Alayne ? ” 

“Not till I came to Jalna, Gran.” 

“What’s that? What’s that? Not heard of the 
Buffs ? The girl must be mad! I won’t have it! ” Her 
face grew purple with rage. “Tell her about the Buffs, 
somebody. I forget the beginning of it. Tell her in¬ 
stantly ! ” 

“ I ’ll tell her,” said Renny. 

Nicholas put the loud pedal down. Grandmother fell 
into one of her sudden dozes, by which she always re¬ 
captured the strength lost in a rage. 

They were boring, Alayne thought. They were mad- 


PILGRIM’S PROGRESS 


22 f 


dening. They oppressed her, and yet a strange burden 
of beauty lay on the high-walled room, emanating from 
the figures disposed about it: Gran and Boney; Nicholas 
at the piano; Meg, all feminine curves and heavy sweet¬ 
ness; Piers and Eden playing cribbage; Sasha, curled 
on the mantelpiece. 

“I must not get to care for you,” Renny said, in a 
muffled voice. “Nor you for me. It would make an 
impossible situation.” 

“Yes,” murmured Alayne, “it would be impossible.” 


XVIII 

IN THE WIND AND RAIN 


“Here's a letter from New York to say they’ve got the 
proofs all right,” observed Eden. “ They think the book 
will be ready by the first of March. Do you think that is 
a good time?” 

“Excellent,” said Alayne. “Is the letter from Mr. Cory ?” 

“Yes. He sends his regards to you. Says he misses 
you awfully. They all do. And he’s sending you a pack¬ 
age of new books to read.” 

Alayne was delighted. “Oh, I am so glad. I am 
hungry for new books. When I think how I used liter¬ 
ally to wallow in them! Now the thought of a package 
of new ones seems wonderful.” 

“ What a brute I am! ” exclaimed Eden. “ I never 
think of anything but my damned poetry. Why didn’t 
you tell me you had nothing to read ? I ’ve seen you with 
books, and I did n’t realize that they were probably forty 
years old. What have you been reading?” 

“I’ve been working with Uncle Ernest a good deal. 
I like that; and I’ve been indulging in Ouida for the first 
time, fancy! And reading Rob Roy to Wake. I have 
not done badly.” 

“You darling! Why don’t you simply jump on me 
when I’m stupid? Here you are, cooped up at Jalna, 
with no amusements, while it streams November rain, 
and I lose myself in my idiotic imaginings.” 

“I am perfectly happy, only I don’t see a great deal 
of you. You were in town three days last week, for 
instance, and you went to that football match with Renny 
and Piers one day.” 


IN THE WIND AND RAIN 


223 

“ I know, I know. It was that filthy job I was looking 
after in town.” 

“That did not come to anything, did it?” 

“ No. The hours were too beastly long. I’d have had 
no time for my real work at all. What I want is a job 
that will only take a part of my time. Leave me some 
leisure. And the pay not too bad. A chap named Evans, 
a friend of Renny’s, who has something to do with the 
Department of Forestry, is going to do something for 
me, I’m pretty sure. He was overseas with Renny, and 
he married a relative of the Prime Minister.” 

“What is the job?” 

Eden was very vague about the job. Alayne had dis¬ 
covered that he was very vague about work of any kind 
except his writing, upon which he could concentrate with 
hot intensity. 

“ I’m just a child,” he would exclaim, “ about worldly 
things. There ’s no use, Alayne, you ’ll never be able 
to make me grow up. You ’ll go on to the end of your 
days, making over your New York frocks, and getting 
shabbier and shabbier as to hats and shoes, and more and 
more resigned to — ” 

“ Don’t be so sure of that,” she had answered with a 
little asperity. “I am not resigned by nature. As to 
being poor — according to Pheasant I am rich. At least, 
she says your family think I am.” 

He had been staggered. He could not imagine why 
the family should think so, except for the reason that 
they thought of all American girls as rich. As for 
Pheasant, she was a poisonous little mischief-maker, 
and he would speak to Piers about her. 

Alayne had found that, when Eden was irritating, he 
annoyed her out of all proportion to his words—rmade 
her positively want to hurt him. Now, to save her dig¬ 
nity, she changed the subject 


224 JALNA 

“ Eden, I sometimes wish you had gone on with your 
profession. You would at least have been sure of it. 
You would have been your own master—” 

“Dear,” he interrupted, “wish me an ill that I deserve, 
trample on me, crush me, be savage, but don’t wis'h I 
were a member of that stuffy, stultifying, atrophying 
profession. It was Meggie who put me into it, when I 
was too young and weak to resist. But when I found out 
the effect it was having on me, thank God, I had the 
grit to chuck it. My darling, just imagine your little 
white rabbit spending his young life nosing into all sorts 
of mouldy lawsuits, and filthy divorce cases, and actions 
for damages to the great toe of a grocer by a motor 
driven by the president of the Society for the Suppression 
of Vice! Think of it!” He rumpled his fair hair and 
glared at her. “ Honestly, I should n’t survive the strain 
a week.” 

Alayne took his head to her breast and stroked it in 
her soft, rather sedate fashion. 

“Don’t, darling. You make me feel a positive ogre. 
And there’s no hurry. I ’ve drawn almost nothing from 
my account yet.” 

“I should hope not!” he exclaimed savagely. 

She asked after a moment: “Will the books from Mr. 
Cory come straight here or shall we have to go to town 
for them ? ” 

“It depends upon whether they are held up in the 
customs. If they are, we’ll go in together for them. It 
will be a little change for you. God knows, you don’t 
get much change.” 

They were in their own room. He was at his desk, 
and she standing beside him. He began searching 
through a box of stamps for a stamp that was not stuck 
to another one. He was mixing them up thoroughly, 
partially separating one from another, then in despair 


IN THE WIND AND RAIN 225 

throwing them back into the box, in such disorder that she 
longed to snatch them from him and set them to rights, 
if possible, but she had learned that he did not like his 
things put in order 1 . He had been helping Renny to exercise 
two new saddle horses, and he smelled of the stables. 
The smell of horses was always in the house; dogs were 
always running in and out, barking to get in, scratching 
at doors to get out; their muddy footprints were always 
in evidence in November. Alayne was getting accus¬ 
tomed to this, but at first it had been a source of irritation, 
even disgust. She would never forget the shock she had 
experienced when, coming into her bedroom one after¬ 
noon, she had discovered a shaggy, bobtailed sheep dog 
curled up on the middle of her bed. 

She rather liked dogs, but she did not understand them. 
At home they had never had a dog. Her mother had kept 
goldfish and a canary, but Alayne had thought these 
rather a nuisance. She felt that she would like horses 
better than either dogs or canaries. She wished she could 
ride, but nothing had been said about her learning, and 
she was too reserved, too much, afraid of being a trouble, 
to suggest it. Meg had never ridden since her engage¬ 
ment to Maurice had been broken off, but Pheasant rode 
like a boy. 

Eden had at last detached a stamp. He held it against 
his tongue and then stuck it upside down on his letter. 

Watching him, Alayne had a sudden and dispassionate 
vision of him as an old man, firmly established at Jalna, 
immovable, contented, without hope or ambition, just like 
Nicholas and Ernest. She saw him gray-headed, at a 
desk, searching for a stamp, licking it, fixing it, fancying 
himself busy. She felt desperately afraid. 

“Eden,” she said, still stroking his bright head, “have 
you been thinking of your novel lately? Have you per¬ 
haps made a tiny beginning?” 


226 JALNA 

He turned on her, upsetting the box of stamps and 
giving the ink-pot such a jar that she was barely able to 
save it. 

“ You ’re not going to start bothering me about that, 
are you? ” Rich color flooded his face. “ Just when I ’m 
fairly swamped with other things. I hope you're not 
going to begin nagging at me, darling, because I can’t 
wangle the right sort of job on the instant. I couldn’t 
bear that.” 

“ Don’t be silly,” returned Alayne. “ I have no inten¬ 
tion of nagging. I am only wondering if you are still 
interested in the novel.” 

“Of course I am. But, my dear lady, a man can’t 
begin a tremendous piece of work like that without a lot 
of thought. When I begin it I’ll let you know.” He 
took up his fountain pen and vigorously shook it. He 
tried to write, but it was empty. 

“Isn’t it appalling,” he remarked, “how the entire 
universe seems after one sometimes? Just before you 
came in, that shelf over there deliberately hit me on the 
head as I was getting a book from the bookcase. I 
dropped the book, and, when I picked it up, the sharp 
comer of the dresser bashed me on the other side of the 
head. Now my pen’s empty, and there is scarcely any 
ink!” 

“ Let me fill it for you,” said Alayne. “ I think there 
is enough ink.” 

She filled it, kissed the bumped head, and left him. 

As she descended the stairs, she had a glimpse of Piers 
and Pheasant in a deep window seat on the landing. They 
had drawn the shabby mohair curtains before them, but 
she saw that they were eating a huge red apple, bite 
about, like children. Outside, the wind was howling and 
the rain was slashing down the windowpane behind them. 
They looked very jolly and care-free, as though life 


IN THE WIND AND RAIN 


227 

were a pleasant game. And yet, she reflected, they had 
their own troubles. 

The front door was standing open, and Renny was in 
the porch, talking to a man whom Alayne knew to be a 
horse dealer. He was a heavy-jowled man with a deep, 
husky voice and little shrewd eyes. A raw blast, smell¬ 
ing of the drenched countryside, rushed in at the open 
door. The feet of the two men had left muddy tracks 
in the hall, and one of the clumber spaniels was critically 
sniffing over them. The other spaniel was humped up 
in the doorway, biting himself ferociously jt^st above the 
tail. In the sullen twilight of the late afternoon she could 
not distinguish Renny’s features, but she could see his 
weather-beaten face close to the dealer’s, as they talked 
together. 

After all, she thought, he was little better than a horse 
dealer himself. He spent more time with his horses 
than he did with his family. Half the time he did not 
turn up at meals, and when he did appear, riding through 
the gate on his bony gray mare, his shoulders drooping 
and his long back slightly bent, as likely as not some 
strange and horsey being rode beside him. 

And the devastating fascination he had for her! Be¬ 
side him, Eden upstairs at his desk seemed nothing but 
a petulant child. Yet Eden had bright and beautiful 
gifts, which Renny had neither the imagination nor the 
intellect to appreciate. 

Rags’s face, screwed up with misery, appeared around 
a doorway at the back of the hall. 

“My word, wot a draft!” she heard him mutter. 
“ It’s enough to blow the tea things off the tr’y.” 

“ I will shut the door, Wragge,” she said, kindly, but, 
regarding her own offer with cold criticism as she 
stepped over the long plumed tail of a spaniel, she came 
to the conclusion that she had made it for the sole reason 


2 28 JALNA 

that she might stand in the doorway an instant with the 
gale blowing her, and be seen by Renny. After all, she 
did not quite escape the plumey tail. The high heel of 
her shoe pinched it sharply, and the spaniel gave an out¬ 
raged yelp of pain. Renny peered into the hall with a 
snarl: someone had hurt one of his dogs. His rough 
red eyebrows came down over his beak of a nose. 

“I was going to close the door,” explained Alayne, 
“and I stepped on Flossie’s tail.” 

“ Oh,” said Renny, “ I thought perhaps Rags had hurt 
her.” 

The horse dealer’s little gray eyes twinkled at her 
through the gloom. 

She tried to close the door, but the other spaniel humped 
himself against it. He would not budge. Renny took 
him by the scruff and dragged him into the porch. 

“Stubborn things, ain’t they?” remarked the horse 
dealer. 

“Thanks, Renny,” said Alayne, and she closed the 
door, and found herself not alone in the hall, but out in 
the porch with the men. 

Renny turned a questioning look on her. Now why 
had she done that? The wind was whipping her skirt 
against her legs, plastering her hair back from her fore¬ 
head, spattering her face with raindrops. Why had she 
done such a thing? 

Merlin, the spaniel, to show that there was no hard 
feeling, stood on his hind legs and put his paws against 
her skirt, licking up toward her face. 

“ Down, Merlin, down,” said his master, and he added, 
perfunctorily, “ Alayne, this is Mr. Crowdy, the man who 
bought Firelight’s foal. Crowdy, Mrs. Eden Whiteoak.” 

“Pleased to meet you,” said Mr. Crowdy, removing 
his hat. “It’s terrible weather, ain’t it? But only what 
we must expect at this time of year. Rain and sleet and 


IN THE WIND AND RAIN 


229 

snow from now on, eh? You'll be wishing you was 
back in the States, Mrs. Whiteoak.” 

“We have cold weather in New York, too,” said 
Alayne, wondering what the man must think of her. 
She felt sure that Renny saw through her, saw that he 
had a pernicious fascination that had drawn her, against 
her will, to the porch. 

“Well,” observed the horse dealer, “I must be off. 
Mrs. Crowdy, she’ll have it in for me if I’m late to 
supper.” He and Renny made some arrangement to meet 
at Mistwell the next day, and he drove off in a noisy 
Ford car. 

They were alone. A gust of wind shook the heavy 
creeper above the porch and sent a shower of drops that 
drenched their hair. He fumbled for a cigarette and 
with difficulty lighted it. 

“ I felt that I had to have the air,” she said. “ I have 
been in all day.” 

“ I suppose it does get on your nerves.” 

“ You must have hated my coming out in the middle of 
your conversation with that man. I do not think I ever 
did anything quite so stupid before.” 

“ It did n’t matter. Crowdy was just going. But are 
you sure you won’t take cold ? Shall I get you a sweater 
out of the cupboard?” 

“ No. I am going in.” But she stood motionless, look¬ 
ing at the sombre shapes of the hemlocks that were being 
fast engulfed by the approaching darkness. Thought 
was suspended, only her senses were alive, and they were 
the senses of elemental things — the rain, the wind, the 
engulfing darkness, the quiescent, imploring earth — 

Was she in his arms — the rough tweed of his sleeve 
against her cheek — his lips pressing hers — his kisses 
torturing her, weakening her? No, he had not moved 
from where he stood. She was standing alone at the 


230 JALNA 

edge of the steps, the rain spattering her face as though 
with tears. Yet, so far as she was concerned, the em¬ 
brace had been given, received. She felt the ecstasy, the 
relaxation of it. 

He stood there immobile, silhouetted against the win¬ 
dow of the library which had been, at that moment, 
lighted behind him. Then his voice came as though from 
a long way off. 

“What is it? You are disturbed about something.” 

“No, no. I am all right.” 

“Are you? I thought you had come out here to tell 
me something.” 

“No, I had nothing to tell you. I came because — I 
cannot explain — but you and that man made a strange 
sort of picture out here, and I moved out into it un¬ 
consciously.” She realized with an aching relief that he 
had not guessed the trick her senses had played her. He 
had only seen her standing rigid at the top of the wind¬ 
swept steps. 

A long-legged figure came bounding along the drive¬ 
way, leaped on to the steps, and almost ran against her. 
It was Finch back from school. He was drenched. He 
threw a startled look at them and moved toward the door. 

“ Oh, Finch, you are wet,” said Alayne, touching his 
sleeve. 

“ That’s nothing,” he returned gruffly. 

“YouYe late,” remarked Renny. 

“ I could n’t get the earlier train. A bunch of us were 
kept in.” 

The boy hesitated, peering at them as though they were 
strangers whose features he wished to distinguish and 
remember. 

“H-m,” muttered Renny. “Well, you had better 
change into dry things and do some practising before 
tea.” 


IN THE WIND AND RAIN 


231 

His tone, abstracted and curt, was unlike his usual air 
of indolent authority. Finch knew that he was expected 
to move instantly, but he could not force his legs to carry 
him into the house. There was something in the porch, 
some presence, something between those two, that mes¬ 
merized him. His soul seemed to melt within him, to go 
out through his chest gropingly toward theirs. His body 
a helpless shell, propped there on two legs, while his soul 
crept out toward them, fawning about them like one of 
the spaniels, one of the spaniels on the scent of something 
strange and beautiful. 

“You’re so wet, Finch,” came distantly in Alayne’s 
voice. 

And then in Renny’s: “ Will you do what I tell you ? 
Get upstairs and change.” 

Finch peered at them, dazed. Then, slowly, his soul 
skulked back into his body like a dog into its kennel. 
Once more his legs had life in them. 

“ Sorry,” he muttered, and half stumbled into the 
house. 

Meg was coming down the stairway, and Rags had 
just turned on the light in the hall. 

“How late you are!” she exclaimed. “Oh, what a 
muddy floor! Finch, is it possible you brought all that 
mud in? One would think you were an elephant. Will 
you please take it up, Wragge, at once, before it gets 
tramped in? How many times have I told you to wipe 
your boots on the mat outside, Finch?” 

“I dunno.” 

“Well, really, this rug is getting to be a disgrace. 
You’re late, dear. Are you starving?” 

She was at the foot of the stairs now. She kissed him, 
and he rubbed his cheek, moist with rain, against hers, 
warm and velvety. 

“M-m,” they breathed, rocking together. Flossie, the 


232 JALNA 

spaniel, was scratching at the already much bescratched 
front door. 

“What does Flossie want?” asked Meg. 

“I dunno.” 

“Why, she wants to get out. Merlin must be out 
there. Was he there when you came in ? ” 

“I didn’t see him.” 

“Let Flossie out, Rags. She wants Merlin.” 

“ No, don’t let her out,” bawled Finch. “ She ’ll only 
bring more mud in. Put her in the kitchen.” 

“ Yes, I believe that would be better. Put her in the 
kitchen, Rags.” 

Finch said: “ I ’ve got to do some practising.” 

“No, dear,” replied his sister, firmly. “It’s tea time. 
You can’t practise now. It’s time for tea.” 

“But, look here,” cried Finch. “I shan’t get any 
practising to-night, then. I’ve a lot of lessons to do.” 

“You shouldn’t be so late coming home. That’s one 
reason I didn’t want you to have such an expensive 
teacher. It’s so worrying when there’s no opportunity 
for practising. But, of course, Alayne would have it.” 

“ Darn it all! ” bawled Finch. “ Why can’t I practise 
in peace ? ” 

“Finch, go upstairs this instant and change into dry 
things.” 

The door of Gran’s room opened and Uncle Nick put 
his head out. 

“What’s this row about?” he asked. “Mamma is 
sleeping.” 

“ It’s Finch. He is being very unruly.” Meg turned 
her round sweet face toward Nicholas. 

“ You ought to be ashamed of yourself. And all the 
money which is being spent on your music! Get upstairs 
with you. You deserve to have your ears cuffed.” 

Finch, with his ears as red as though they had already 


IN THE WIND AND RAIN 


2 33 

had the cuffing, slunk up the stairs. Piers and Pheasant, 
still on the window seat, had drawn the curtains tightly 
across, so that they were effectually concealed, except for 
the outline of their knees, and their feet which projected 
under the edge. Finch, after a glance at the feet, was 
reasonably sure of their owners. What a lot of fun 
everyone had, but himself! Snug and dry before warm 
fires, or petting in corners. 

He found Wakefield in his room, sprawled on the bed, 
reading Huckleberry Finn. 

“ Hullo,” said the little boy politely. “ I hope you 
don’t mind me being here. I wanted to lie down a bit 
as I aren’t very well, and yours is the only bed I can 
tumble up without Meggie minding.” 

“Why don’t you tell her you’re not well?” asked 
Finch, pulling off his soaked jacket. 

“ Oh, she’d fuss over me, keep me on the sofa where 
she could watch me. I like a little privacy as well as 
anyone.” 

He was eating marshmallows and he offered Finch one. 

“Thanks,” said Finch, who was ravenous. “You 
seem always to have marshmallows lately.” He looked 
at him with sudden severity. “Does Meggie know 
you’ve always got them?” 

Wake calmly bit into another. “Oh, I don’t suppose 
so. Any more than she knows you’ve always got cig¬ 
arettes about you.” His eyes were on his book; one cheek 
was distended. He looked innocent, and yet, the little 
devil, it had sounded like a threat. 

“You mind your own affairs,” broke out Finch, “or 
I ’ll chuck you into the hall.” 

Wakefield’s bright eyes were on him. “Don’t be 
cross, Finch. I was only thinking how yellow your 
second finger looked when you took that marshmallow. 
You’d better scrub it with pumice stone before tea or 


234 JALNA 

someone may notice. You see, your hands are so large 
and bony that people notice them, and anyone knows that 
it takes more than one cigarette to give that orangy 
color.” 

“ You see too damned much,” growled Finch. “ When 
you get to school you’ll have some of the smugness 
knocked out of you.” 

“ I dare say,” agreed Wake, sadly. “ I hope you won’t 
let the other boys bully me, Finch.” 

“ Why, look here, there are five hundred fellows in the 
school. Do you suppose I can keep an eye on you ? I ’ll 
never even see you. You’ll have to just shift for 
yourself.” 

“ Oh, I ’ll manage somehow,” said Wake. 

Finch thought that Wake would probably be happier 
at school than he was. He hoped so, for he was very fond 
of this dark-skinned debonair little brother, so different 
from himself. In silence he took off his sodden socks, 
gave his feet a perfunctory rub with a frayed bath towel 
and threw it into a comer. His brain was going round 
like a squirrel in a cage. Finding Renny and Alayne 
alone in the dark rain-drenched porch had brought some¬ 
thing to his mind, reminding him curiously of something. 
He could not think at first what it was, then he remem¬ 
bered. It was the time he had come upon Renny and the 
unknown woman in the pine wood. 

It was not only finding Renny alone with a woman in 
a dim and sheltered spot, it was something in his attitude 
— an air of detached attentiveness, as though he were 
listening, waiting for something that the woman was to 
do. Some sort of signal. 

Finch could not understand why it had affected him so 
deeply to discover Renny and Alayne in the porch to¬ 
gether, unless it was that it had reminded him of that 
other time He had been determined that Meg should 


IN THE WIND AND RAIN 235 

not know that they were there. But why? There was 
nothing wrong in their being there together. It was 
simply that he himself had the kind of mind that — oh, 
Lord, he seemed to find possibilities of mystery, of evil, 
where no one else would see anything of import. He had 
a disturbed and beastly mind, there was no doubt about 
it. He deserved all the knocks that came his way. He 
had a horrible mind, he thought. 

He did wish Meggie would let him practise his music 
lesson. Meggie was antagonistic toward the music 
lessons. No doubt about that. But if he had been taking 
from Miss Pink it would have been all right. God, 
women were strange beings! 

He went to the drawer where his underclothes were 
kept, and fumbled hopelessly for a pair of socks that 
matched. 


XIX 

A VARIETY OF SCENES 


The books from New York were held at the custom¬ 
house in the city. The day when the official card arrived 
informing Alayne of this, the country was so submerged 
in cold November rain that a trip into town to get them 
seemed impossible. Alayne, with the despair of a dis¬ 
appointed child, wandered about the house, looking out 
of first one window and then another, gazing in helpless 
nostalgia at dripping hemlocks like funeral plumes, then 
at the meadows where the sheep huddled, next at the 
blurred wood that dipped to the wet ravine, and last, 
from a window in the back hall, on to the old brick oven 
and the clothes drier and a flock of draggled, rowdy 
ducks. She thought of New York and her life there, of 
her little apartment, of the publishing house of Cory and 
Parsons, the reception room, the offices, the packing 
rooms. It all seemed like a dream. The streets with 
their cosmopolitan throngs, faces seen and instantly lost, 
faces seen more closely and remembered for a few hours, 
the splendid and terrible onward sweep of it. The image 
of every face here was bitten into her memory, even the 
faces of the farm laborers, of Rags, of the grocer’s boy, 
and the fishmonger. 

How quiet Jalna could be! It lay under a spell of 
silence, sometimes for hours. Now, in the hall, the only 
sound was the steady licking of a sore paw by the old 
sheep dog, and the far-away rattle of coals in the basement 
below. What did the Wragges do down there in the dim 
half light? Quarrel, recriminate, make it up? Alayne 
had seen Wragge, a moment ago, glide through the hall 


A VARIETY OF SCENES ' " 237 

and up the stairs with a tray to Meg's room. Oh, that 
endless procession of little lunches! Why could not the 
woman eat a decent meal at the table? Why this air of 
stale mystery? Why this turgid storing up behind all 
these closed doors? Grandmother: Boney — India — 
crinolines — scandal — Captain Whiteoak. Nicholas: 
Nip — London — whiskey — Millicent — gout. Ernest: 
Sasha — Shakespeare — old days at Oxford — debts. 
Meggie: broken hearts—bastards — little lunches — 
cozy plumpness. 

And all the rest of them, getting their rooms ready for 
their old age — stuffy nests where they would sit and sit 
under the leaky roof of Jalna till at last it would crash in 
on them and obliterate them. 

She must get Eden away from here before the sinister 
spell of the house caught them and held them forever. 
She would buy a house with her own money and still have 
enough left to keep them for a year or two, until he could 
make a living from his pen. She would not have him 
tortured by uncongenial work. Above all, she must not be 
in the house with Renny Whiteoak. She no longer con¬ 
cealed from herself the fact that she loved him. She 
loved him as she had never loved Eden — as she had not 
known that she was capable of loving anyone. A glimpse 
of him on his bony gray mare would make her forget 
whatever she was doing. His presence in the dining 
room or drawing-room was so disturbing to her that she 
began to think of her feelings as dangerously unman¬ 
ageable. 

The clock struck two. The day was only half gone, 
and already it seemed as long as any day should be. The 
rain was now descending tumultuously. How such a 
rain would bounce again from the pavement in New 
York! Here it drove in unbroken shining strands like 
the quivering strings of an instrument. A stableman 


238 JALNA 

with a rubber cape thrown over his head came running 
across the yard, frightening the ducks, and clattered 
down the steps into the basement. A moment later Mrs. 
Wragge laboriously climbed the stairs from her domain 
and appeared in the hall. 

“Please, Mrs. Whiteoak,” she said, “Mr. Renny ’as 
sent word from the stables as ’e’s goin’ into town by 
motor this afternoon and if you’ll send the card from 
the customs back by Wright, he says, he ’ll get them books 
from the States. Or was it boots? Bless me, I’ve gone 
and forgot. And there’s nothink throws ’im into a stew 
like a herror in a message.” 

“It was books,” said Alayne. “I will run up to my 
room and find the notice. Just come to the foot of the 
stairs and I ’ll throw it down to you.” 

The thought of having the books that evening ex¬ 
hilarated her. She flew up the stairs. 

Eden was not writing as she expected but emptying 
the books out of the secretary and piling them on the 
bed. 

“ Hullo! ” he exclaimed. “ See what a mess I’m in. 
I’m turning out all these old books. There are dozens 
and dozens I never look at. Taking up room. Old 
novels. Old Arabian Nights. Even old schoolbooks. 
And Boys’ Own. Wake may have those.” 

What a state the bed was in! 

“Eden, are you sure they are not dusty?” 

“ Dusty! I ’ll bet they have n’t been dusted for five 
years. Look at my hands.” 

“Oh, dear! Well, never mind. Renny’s motoring 
into town and he will get the books from the customs. 
Oh, wherever is that card? I know I left it on the 
desk, and you have heaped books all over it. Really, 
Eden, you are the most untidy being I have ever 
known.” 


A VARIETY OF SCENES 


239 


They argued, searching for the card, which was at 
last unearthed in the waste-paper basket. In the mean¬ 
time the car had arrived at the door, and Mrs. Wragge 
was panting up the stairs with another message. 

“ ’E says ’e ’s late already, ’m, and will you please send 
the card. He says it’s not half bad out, if you’d like a 
ride to town. But indeed, ’m, I shouldn’t go if I was 
you, for Mr. Renny, he drives like all possessed, and the 
’ighway will be like treacle.” 

“Great idea,” cried Eden. “We’ll both go. Eh, 
Alayne ? It ’ll do us good. I’ve been working like the 
devil. I can stir up Evans about the job, and you can 
do a little shopping. We’ll have tea at The George and 
be home in time for supper. Will you do it, Alayne?” 

Alayne would. Anything to be free for a few hours 
from the cramped and stubborn air of Jalna. Mrs. 
Wragge panted downstairs with the message. 

Alayne had never in her life before gone away leaving 
her room in such disorder. Impossible to keep even a 
semblance of order in the place where Eden worked. 
When they were in their own house, oh, the little cool 
mauve-and-yellow room she would have for her own! 

If Renny were disappointed at the appearance of Eden 
he did not show it. Husband and wife clambered, rain- 
coated, into the back seats under the dripping curtains. 
The wet boughs of the hemlocks swept the windows as 
they slid along the drive. 

It was true that the master of Jalna drove “like all 
possessed.” The highway was almost deserted. Like a 
taut wet ribbon it stretched before them, to their left 
alternate sodden woods, fields, and blurred outlines of 
villages; to their right, the gray expanse of the inland sea, 
and already, on a sandy point, a lighthouse sending its 
solitary beam into the mist. 

Alayne was set down before a shop. “ Are you sure 


240 JALNA 

you’ve plenty of money, dear?” and a half-suppressed 
grin from Renny. Eden was taken to the customhouse, 
and then the elder Whiteoak went about his own strange 
business among leggined, swearing hostlers, and moist 
smelling straw, and beautiful, satin-coated creatures who 
bit their mangers and stamped in excess of boredom. 

Alayne bought a bright French scarf to send to Rosa¬ 
mund Trent, “ just to show her that we have some pretty 
things up here — ” two new shirts for Eden, — a sur¬ 
prise,— a box of sweets for Gran, another, richer, larger 
one for the family, a brilliant smock that she could not 
resist for Pheasant, and some stout woollen stockings 
for herself. 

She found Eden and Renny waiting for her in the 
lobby of an upstairs tearoom. They chose a table near 
the crackling fire. In a corner on the floor Eden heaped 
Alayne’s purchases on top of the package of books. 
There were quite eight books in the packet, he informed 
her, and he had had the devil’s own time getting them 
out of the customs. They had been mislaid and it had 
taken six clerks to find them. Alayne’s eyes gloated over 
them as they lay there. While they waited for their 
order, she told what she had bought and for whom — 
except the shirts, which were to be a surprise. 

“ And nothing for me ? ” pleaded Eden, trying to take 
her foot between his thick-soled boots. 

“ Wait and see.” She sent a warm bright look toward 
him, trying to avoid Renny’s dark gaze. 

“Nor me?” he asked. 

“Ha,” said Eden, “there’s nothing for you.” And 
he pressed Alayne’s foot. 

“ My God,” he continued, as the waitress appeared 
with the tray. “The man has ordered poached eggs! 
Why didn’t I?” 

He looked enviously for a moment on the two harvest 


A VARIETY OF SCENES 


241 

moons that lay on buttered toast before his brother, and 
then attacked his Sally Lunn and raspberry jam. 

“ What is that you have ? ” asked Renny, looking down 
his nose at Alayne’s cake and ice cream. 

“You seem to forget,” she replied, “that I am an 
American, and that I haven’t tasted our national sweet 
for months.” 

“ I wish you would let me order an egg for you,” he 
returned, seriously. “ It would be much more staying.” 

Eden interrupted: “ Do you know, brother Renny, you 
smell most horribly horsey ? ” 

“No wonder. I’ve been embracing the sweetest filly 
you ever saw. She’s going to be mine, too. What a 
neck! What flanks! And a hide like brown satin.” 
He stopped dipping a strip of toast into the yolk of an 
egg to gaze ecstatically into space. 

Alayne gave way. She stared at him, drank in the 
sight of the firelight on his carved, weather-beaten face, 
lost herself in the depths of his unseeing eyes. 

“Always horses, never girls,” Eden was saying rather 
thickly, through jam. “ I believe you dream o’ nights of 
a wild mane whipping your face, and a pair of dainty 
hoofs pawing your chest. What a bedfellow, eh, brother 
Renny ? ” His tone was affectionate and yet touched by 
the patronage of the intellectual toward the man who is 
interested only in active pursuits. 

“I can think of worse,” said Renny, grinning. 

Safe from the wind and rain, the three talked, laughed, 
and poured amber cups of tea from fat green pots. 
Golden beads of butter oozed through the pores of toasted 
Sally Lunns and dimpled on little green plates. Plump 
currants tumbled from slices of fruit cake; and Alayne 
gave her share of icing to Eden. A pleasant hum of 
careless chatter buzzed around them. 

“By the way,” said Eden, “Evans wants me to stop 


242 JALNA 

in town all night. There is a man named Brown he wants 
me to meet.” 

“Anything doing yet?” asked Renny. 

Eden shook his head. “Everything here is dead in a 
business way. The offices positively smell mouldy. But 
Evans says there’s bound to be a tremendous improve¬ 
ment in the spring.” 

“ Why ? ” asked Alayne. 

“I really don’t know. Evans didn’t say. But these 
fellows have ways of telling.” 

“Oh, yes,” agreed Renny, solemnly. “They know.” 

“ Little boys,” thought Alayne, “ that’s what they are, 
nothing but little boys where business — city business — 
is concerned. Believing just what they’re told. No 
initiative. I know five times as much about business as 
they.” 

“So,” went on Eden, “if you don’t mind trusting 
yourself to Renny, old lady, I ’ll stop the night here and 
see this man. You ’ll just have to chuck those books back 
into the bookcase, and I ’ll look after them to-morrow. 
Too bad I left them all over the place.” 

“Oh, I’ll manage.” But she thought: “He doesn’t 
care. He knows I shall have to handle a hundred dusty 
books, that the bed is all upset, they are even on the chairs 
and dresser, and he’ll never give it a second thought. 
He’s selfish. He’s as self-centred as a cat. Like a lithe, 
golden, tortoise-shell cat; and Renny’s like a fox; and 
their grandmother is an old parrot; and Meggie is an¬ 
other cat, the soft purry kind that is especially wicked 
and playful with a bird; and Ernest and Nicholas are two 
old owls; and Finch a clumsy half-grown lamb — what 
a menagerie at Jalna!” 

As Eden was putting her into the car he whispered: 
“Our first night apart. I wonder if we’ll be able to 
sleep.” 


A VARIETY OF SCENES 


243 


“ It will seem strange,” she returned. 

He pushed his head and shoulders into the dimness in¬ 
side and kissed her. The rain was slashing against the 
car. Her parcels were heaped on the seat beside her. 

“ Keep the rug about you. Are you warm ? Now your 
little paw.” He cuddled it against his cheek. “Per¬ 
haps you would sooner have sat in the front seat with 
Renny.” She shook her head and he slammed the door, 
just as the car moved away. 

They were off, through the blurred streaming streets, 
nosing their way through the heavily fumbling traffic. 
Cars that were like wet black beetles lurching homeward. 
Every moment Renny’s hand, holding a cloth, slid across 
the glass. No modern improvements on the Jalna car. 
Then out of the town. Along the shore, where a black 
cavern indicated the lake and one felt suddenly small and 
lonely. Why did he not speak to her? Say something 
ordinary and comforting? 

They were running into a lane, so narrow that there 
was barely room for the motor to push through. Renny 
turned toward her. 

“ I have to see a man in here. I shan’t be more than 
five minutes. Do you mind?” 

“Of course not.” But she thought: “He asks me if 
I mind, after we are here. If that isn’t like the White- 
oaks! Of course I mind. I shall perfectly hate sitting 
here in the chill dark, alone in this lashing rain. But he 
does not care. He cares nothing about me. Possibly 
forgets — everything — just as he promised he would — 
and I cannot forget — and I suffer.” 

He had plunged into the darkness and was swallowed 
as completely as a stone dropped into a pool. There was 
no sound of retreating footsteps. The stamp of a horse 
could scarcely have been heard above the wind and rain. 
At one moment she saw him bent in the doorway of the 


244 JALNA 

car; at the next he was apparently extinguished. But 
after a little she heard a dog bark and then the slam of 
a door. 

She snuggled her chin into the fur about her neck and 
drew the rug closer. Then she discovered that he had 
left the door of the motor open. He did not care whether 
she was wet and chilled to the bone. She could have 
whimpered — indeed, she did make a little whimpering 
sound, as she leaned over the seat and clutched at the 
door. She could not get it shut. She sank back and 
again pulled the rug closer. It was as though she were 
in a tiny house in the woods alone, shut in by the echoing 
walls of rain. Supposing that she lived in a tiny house 
in the woods alone — with Renny, waiting for him now 
to come home to her — Oh, God, why could she not keep 
him out of her thoughts? Her mind was becoming like 
a hound, always running, panting, on the scent of Renny 
— Renny, Reynard the Fox! 

She and Eden must leave Jalna, have a place of their 
own, before she became a different being from the one 
he had married. Even now she scarcely recognized her¬ 
self. A desperate, gypsy, rowdy something was growing 
in her — the sedate daughter of Professor Knowlton C. 
Archer. 

She clutched the cord with which the books were 
tied as though to save herself by it. She would try 
to guess the titles of the books, knowing what she did 
of the latest Cory publications. It would be interesting 
to see how many she could guess correctly. What should 
she say to him when he came back? Just be cool and 
distant, or say something that would stir him to realiza¬ 
tion of her mood, her cruelly tormented mood ? Rather 
be silent and let him speak first. 

He was getting into the car. From the black earthy- 
smelling void into which he had dropped, he as suddenly 


A VARIETY OF SCENES 


245 

reappeared, dropping heavily on to the seat and banging 
the door after him. 

“Was I long?” he asked in a muffled tone. “I'm 
afraid I was more than five minutes.” 

“It seemed long.” Her voice sounded faint and far 
away. 

“I think I’ll have a cigarette before we start.” He 
fumbled for his case, then offered it to her. 

She took one and he struck a light. As her face was 
illumined, he looked into it thoughtfully. 

“ I was thinking, as I came down the lane, that if you 
weren’t the wife of Eden, I should ask you if you would 
like to be my mistress.” 

The match was out, and again they were in darkness. 

“A man might cut in on another man that way,” he 
went on, “but not one’s brother — one’s half brother.” 

“Don’t you recognize sin?” she asked, out of the faint 
smoke cloud that veiled her head. 

“No, I don’t think I do. At least, I’ve never been 
sorry for anything I’ve done. But there are certain 
decencies of living. You don’t really love him, do you?” 

“No. I just thought I did.” 

“And you do love me?” 

“Yes.” 

“ It’s rotten hard luck. I’ve been fighting against it, 
but I’ve gone under.” He continued on a note of in¬ 
genuous wonder. “And to think that you are Eden’s 
wife! What hopelessly rotten luck!” 

She was thinking: “If he really lets himself go and 
asks me that, I shall say yes. That nothing matters but 
our love. Better throw decency to the winds than have 
this tumult inside one. I cannot bear it. I shall say yes.” 

Life in a dark full tide was flowing all about them. 
Up the lane it swept, as between the banks of a river. 
They were afloat on it, two leaves that had come together 


246 JALNA 

and were caught. They were submerged in it, as the 
quivering reflections of two stars. They talked in low, 
broken voices. When had he first begun to love her? 
When had she first realized that all those exultant, ex¬ 
pectant moods of hers were flaring signals from the fresh 
fire that was now consuming her ? But he did not again 
put into words his desire for her. He, who had all his 
life ridden desire as a galloping horse, now took for 
granted that in this deepest love he had known he must 
keep the whip hand of desire. She, who had lived a 
life of self-control, was now ready to be swept away in 
amorous quiescence, caring for nothing but his love. 

At last, mechanically he moved under the wheel and 
let in the clutch. The car moved slowly backward down 
the sodden lane, lumbered with elephantine obstinacy 
through the long grass of the ditch, and slid then, hum- 
mingly, along the highway. 

They scarcely spoke until they reached Jalna, ex¬ 
cept when he said over his shoulder: “ Should you care 
to ride ? This new mare is just the thing for you. She’s 
very young, but beautifully broken, and as kind as a 
June day. You’d soon learn.” 

“But didn’t you buy her as a speculation?” 

“Well — I’m going to breed from her.” 

“If you think I can learn — ” 

“I should say that you would ride very well. You 
have the look of it — a good body.” 

The family were at supper. Meg ordered a fresh pot 
of tea for the late comers. 

“ Could we have coffee instead ? ” asked Renny. 
“Alayne is tired of your everlasting tea, Meggie.” 

Nicholas asked: “What books did they send? I 
shouldn’t mind reading a new novel. I’ll have a cup 
of that coffee when it comes. Where did you get rid of 
Eden? Aren’t you cold, child?” 


A VARIETY OF SCENES 


247 

His deep eyes were on them with a veiled expression, 
as though behind them he were engaged in some com¬ 
plicated thinking. 

“ Evans wanted him to stay in town,” answered Renny, 
covering his cold beef with mustard. 

“Do you think he will get Eden something?” asked 
his sister. 

“ Oh, I don’t know. There’s no hurry.” 

Ernest said peevishly: “ As I was remarking just be¬ 
fore you two came in, something must be done about 
the young cockerels. They crow, and they crow. I did 
not get a wink of sleep after gray daylight for them. 
I was told a month ago that they would soon be killed, 
and here they are still crowing.” 

“Ah, say,” interrupted Finch, “ don’t kill all the pretty 
little Leghorn cockerels. They’re so — ” 

“It doesn’t matter to you, Finch,” said Ernest, getting 
angry. “You sleep like a log. But this morning they 
were dreadful. The big Wyandottes experimented with 
every variety of crow, from a defiant clarion shout to a 
hoarse and broken ‘ cock-a-doodle-do,’ and then the little 
Leghorns with their plaintive reiterations in a minor key, 
‘Cock-a-doo-doo’! It’s maddening.” 

“You do it very badly,” said his brother. “It’s more 
like this.” And in stentorian tones he essayed the 
crow, flapping his arms as wings. Piers and Finch also 
crowed. 

“Then a hen,” pursued Ernest, “thought she would 
lay an egg. Fully twenty times she announced that she 
thought she had better lay an egg. Then she laid the 
egg, squawking repeatedly, that the world might know 
what an agonizing and important task it was. Then her 
screams of triumph when it was accomplished! Worst 
of all, every cock and cockerel in the barnyard immedi¬ 
ately crowed in unison.” 


248 JALNA 

“ Each imagining, poor fool,” said Nicholas, “ that he 
was the father of the egg.” 

“ I did n’t hear them at all,” said Meggie. 

Ernest raised a long white hand. “ If I had the whole 
gallinaceous tribe,” he said, “between the forefinger and 
thumb of this hand, to-morrow’s sun should rise upon a 
cockless and henless world.” 

A heavy thumping sounded on the floor of grand¬ 
mother’s room. 

“ Piers, go and see what she wants,” said Meg. “ I 
tucked her up quite an hour ago, and she dropped off in¬ 
stantly.” 

Piers went, and returned, announcing: “ She wants to 
know who brought the rooster into the house. Says 
she won’t have it. She wants Renny and Alayne to go 
and kiss her.” 

“ Oh, I think she just wants Renny. I don’t think she 
would trouble Alayne.” 

“ She said she wanted them both to come and kiss her.” 

“Come along, Alayne,” said Renny, throwing down 
his table napkin. They left the room together. 

Just as they reached the bedroom door, a long sigh was 
drawn within. They hesitated, looking at each other. 
That quivering intake of breath went to their hearts. 
She was lying alone in there, the old, old woman with 
her own thoughts. Her fears perhaps. Of what was 
she thinking, stretched under her quilt, the old lungs 
dilating, contracting. They went in and bent over her, 
one on each side of the bed. She drew them down to 
her in turn and kissed them with sleepy, bewildered, yet 
passionate affection, her mouth all soft and sunken with 
the two sets of teeth removed. 

As they tucked the bedclothes about her neck, she lay 
peering up at them, her eyes queerly bright under the 
night light, infinitely pathetic. 


A VARIETY OF SCENES 


249 


“Anything more, Gran?” asked Renny. 

“No, darling.” 

“Quite comfy, Gran?” asked Alayne. 

She did not answer, for she was again asleep. 

Outside, they exchanged tender, whimsical smiles. 
They wished they did not have to return to the dining 
room. They loved each other all the more because of 
their pity for the old woman. 

As Nicholas and Ernest separated for the night, Nicho¬ 
las said in his growling undertone: “ Did you notice any¬ 
thing about those two ? ” 

Ernest had been blinking, but now he was alert at once. 

“No, I didn't. And yet, now I come to think of it — 
What d'ye mean, Nick?” 

“ They 're gone on each other. No doubt about that. 
I’ll just go in with you a minute and tell you what I 
noticed.” 

The two stepped softly into Ernest's room, closing the 
door after them. 

Renny, in his room, was sitting in a shabby leather 
armchair, with a freshly filled pipe in his hand. This 
particular pipe and this chair were sacred to his last 
smoke before going to bed. He did not light up now, 
however, but sat with the comfort of the smooth bowl 
in the curve of his hand, brooding with the bitterness 
of hopeless love on the soft desirability of the loved one. 
This girl. This wife of Eden's. The infernal cruelty 
of it! It was not as though he loved her only carnally, 
as he had other women. He loved her protectingly, 
tenderly. He wanted to keep her from hurt. His pas¬ 
sion, which in other affairs had burst forth like a flam¬ 
boyant red flower without foliage, now reared its head 
almost timidly through tender leaves of protectiveness 
and pure affection. 

There she lay in the next room, alone. And not only 


250 JALNA 

alone, but loving him. He wondered if she had already 
surrendered herself to him in imagination. No subtle 
vein of femininity ran through the stout fabric of his na¬ 
ture that might have made it possible for him to im¬ 
agine her feelings. To him she was a closed book in a 
foreign language. He believed that there were men who 
understood women because of a certain curious prying 
in their contacts with them. To him it was scarcely 
decent. He took what women gave him, and asked no 
questions. 

There she lay in the next room, alone. He had heard 
her moving about in her preparation for bed. She had 
seemed to be moving things about, and he had remem¬ 
bered Eden’s saying something about emptying out the 
bookcase. The blasted fool! Leaving her to handle 
a lot of heavy books. He had thought of going in to do 
it for her, but he had decided against that. God knows 
what might have come of it — alone together in there — 
the rain on the roof, the old mossgrown roof of Jalna 
pressing above them, all the passions that had blazed 
and died beneath it dripping down on them, pressing them 
together. 

There she lay in the next room, alone. He pictured 
her in a fine embroidered shift, curled softly beneath 
the silk eiderdown like a kitten, her hair in two long 
honey-colored braids on the pillow. He got up and moved 
restlessly to the door, opened it, and looked out into the 
hall. A gulf of darkness there. And a silence broken 
only by the low rumble of Uncle Nick’s snore and the 
rasping tick of the old clock. God! Why had Eden 
chosen to stay away to-night ? 

Wakefield stirred on the bed, and Renny closed the 
door and came over to him. He opened his eyes and 
smiled sleepily up at him. 

“ Renny *—a drink.” 


A VARIETY OF SCENES 251 

He filled a glass from a carafe on the washstand, and 
held it to the child’s mouth. Wake raised himself on his 
elbow and drank contentedly, his upper lip magnified to 
thickness in the water. He emptied the glass and threw 
himself back on the pillow, wet-mouthed and soft-eyed. 

“Coming to bed, Renny?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Had your smoke ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“ M-m. I don’t smell it.” 

“ I believe I ’ve forgotten it.” 

“Funny. I say, Renny, when you get into bed, will 
you play we’re somebody else? I’m nervous.” 

“Rot. You go to sleep.” 

“ Honestly. I’m as nervous as anything. Feel my 
heart.” 

Renny felt it. “It feels perfectly good to me.” He 
pulled the clothes about the boy’s shoulders and patted 
his back. “One would think you were a hundred. 
You’re more trouble than Gran.” 

“ May I go to the Horse Show with you ? ” 

“I guess so.” 

“ Hurrah. Did you buy the filly ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“When will she be here?” 

“ To-morrow.” 

“If I aren’t well, may I stay home from lessons?” 

“Yes.” Renny had no backbone to-night, Wake saw 
that. He could do what he liked with him. 

“May I tell Meggie you said so?” 

“ I suppose.” 

“Who shall we be when you come to bed?” 

“ Well — no pirates or harpooners or birds of that sort. 
You be thinking up a nice quiet sociable pair while I have 
my smoke.” 


252 JALNA 

A muffled tread sounded in the hall, and a low knock 
on the door. Renny opened it on Rags, sleep-rumpled 
but important. 

“ Sorry to disturb you, sir, but Wright is downstairs. 
’E’s just come in from the stible and ’e says Cora’s colt 
’as took a turn for the worse, sir, and would you please 
’ave a look at it.” 

Rags spoke with the bright eagerness of hired help 
who have bad news to tell. 

This was bad indeed, for Cora was a new and ex¬ 
pensive purchase. 

“Oh, curse the luck,” growled Renny, as he and 
Wright, with coat collars turned up, hurried through the 
rain, now only a chill drizzle, toward the stable. 

“Yes indeed, sir,” said Wright. “It’s pretty hard 
luck. I was just going to put the light out and go to 
bed,” — he and two other men slept above the garage,— 
“when I saw she was took bad. She’d just been nursed 
too, and we’d give her a raw egg, but she sort of col¬ 
lapsed and waved her head about, and I thought I’d 
better fetch you. She’d seemed a bit stronger to-day, 
too.” 

Down in the stable it was warm and dry. The electric 
light burned clearly, — lamps in the house, electricity in 
the stables at Jalna, — and there was a pleasant smell of 
new hay. The foal lay on a bed of clean straw in a loose 
box. Its dam, in the adjoining stall, threw yearning and 
troubled glances at it over the partition. Why was not 
its tender nose pressing and snuffling against her? Why, 
when it suckled, did it pull so feebly, with none of those 
delicious buntings and furious pullings which, instinct 
told her, were normal and seemly? 

Renny pulled off his coat, threw it across the partition, 
and knelt beside the foal. It seemed to know him, for 
its great liquid eyes sought his face with a pleading ques- 


A VARIETY OF SCENES 


253 

tion in them. Why was it thus? Why had it been 
dropped from warm indolent darkness into this soul¬ 
piercing light? What was it? And along what dark 
echoing alley would it soon have to make its timid way 
alone ? 

Its head, large and carved, was raised above its soft 
furry body; its stiff foal’s legs looked all pitiful angles. 

“Poor little baby,” murmured Renny, passing his 
hands over it, “poor little sick baby.” 

Wright and Dobson stood by, reiterating the things 
they had done for it. Cora plaintively whinnied and 
gnawed the edge of her manger. 

“ Give me the liniment the vet left,” said Renny. “ It’s 
legs are cold.” 

He filled his palm with the liquid and began to rub the 
foal’s legs. If only warmth and strength could pass 
from him into it! “By Judas,” he thought, “perhaps 
there’s some fiery virtue in my red head!” 

He sent the two men to their beds, for he wanted to 
look after the foal himself, and they must have their 
sleep. 

He rubbed it till his arms refused to move, murmuring 
encouragements to it, foolish baby talk: “ Little colty — 
poor little young ’un — does she feel ’ittle bit better 
then?” and “Cora’s baby girl!” 

Comforting noises came from other stalls, soft blow¬ 
ings through wide velvety nostrils, deep contented sighs, 
now and again a happy munching as a wisp of left-over 
supper was consumed, the deep sucking-in of a drink. 
He took a turn through the passages between the stalls, 
sleepy whinnies of recognition welcoming him. In the 
hay-scented dusk he caught the shine of great liquid 
eyes, a white blaze on a forehead, a white star on a 
breast, or the flash of a suddenly tossed mane. God, 
how he loved them, these swift and ardent creatures! 


254 JALNA 

“ Shall I ever see the foal standing tall and proud in her 
box like one of these?” 

He went back to her. 

Cora had lain down, a dark hump in the shadow of 
her stall. In her anxiety she had kicked her bedding into 
the passage, and lay on the bare floor. 

The foal’s eyes were half closed, but when Renny put 
his hand on its tawny flank, they flew wide open, and a 
shiver slid beneath his palm. He felt its legs. Warmer. 
He was going to save it. He was going to save it! It 
wanted to rise. He put his arms about it. “ There — 
up she comes now! ” It was on its feet, its eyes blazing 
with courage, its neck ridiculously arched, its legs stiffly 
braced. Clattering her hoofs, Cora rose, whinnying, 
and looked over the partition at her offspring. It an¬ 
swered her with a little grunt, took two wavering steps, 
then, as if borne down by the weight of its heavy head, 
collapsed again on the straw. “Hungry. Hungry. 
Poor old baby’s hungry. She’s coming, Cora. Hold on, 
pet.” He carried the colt to its dam and supported it 
beneath her. 

Oh, her ecstasy! She quivered from head to foot. She 
nuzzled it, slobbering, almost knocking it over. She 
nuzzled Renny, wetting his hair. She bit him gently on 
the shoulder. “ Steady on. Steady on, old thing. Ah, 
the baby’s got it. Now for a meal!” 

Eagerly it began to suck, but had scarcely well begun 
when its heart failed it. The foal turned its head pet¬ 
ulantly away. Cora looked at Renny in piteous ques¬ 
tioning. It hung heavy in his arms. He carried it back, 
and began the rubbing again. It dozed. He dozed, his 
face glistening with sweat under the electric light. 

But another light was penetrating the stable. Day¬ 
light, pale and stealthy as a cat, creeping through the 
straw, gliding along the cobweb-hung beams, penetrating 


A VARIETY OF SCENES 


255 


delicately into the blackest corners. Impatient whinnies 
were flung from stall to stall. Low, luscious moos an¬ 
swered from the byre. The orchestra of cocks delivered 
its brazen salute to the dawn. The stallion's blue-black 
eyes burned in fiery morning rage, but the little foal’s 
eyes were dim. 

Renny bent over it, felt its legs, looked into its eyes. 
“ Oh, that long, long, lonely gallop ahead of me,” its eyes 
said. “To what strange pasture am I going?” 

Wright came clattering down the stairs, his broad face 
anxious. 

“How’s the wee foal, sir?” 

“It’s dying, Wright.” 

“Ah, I was afraid we couldn’t save her. Lord, Mr. 
Whiteoak, you shouldn’t have stopped up all night! 
When I saw the light burning I was sure you had, and I 
came straight over.” 

Cora uttered a loud terrified whinny. 

The two men bent over the foal. 

“It’s gone, Wright.” 

“Yes, sir. Cora knows.” 

“Go in and quiet her. Have it taken away. God! 
It came suddenly at the last.” 

The rain was over. A mild breeze had blown a clear 
space in the sky. It was of palest blue, and the blown- 
back clouds, pearl and amethyst, were piled up, one on 
another, like tumbled towers. Behind the wet boles of 
the pines a red spark of sunrise burned like a torch. 

Renny pictured the soul of the foal, strong-legged, 
set free, galloping with glad squeals toward some celestial 
meadow, its eyes like stars, its tail a flaming meteor, its 
flying hoofs striking bright sparks from rocky planets. 
“What a blithering ass I am — worse than Eden. Writ¬ 
ing poetry next. ... All her foals — and theirs — gen¬ 
erations of them — lost.” 


256 JALNA 

He went in at the kitchen door, and found young 
Pheasant, a sweater over her nightdress. She was sitting 
on the table eating a thick slice of bread and butter. 

“Oh, Renny, how is the little colt? I wakened be¬ 
fore daylight, and I could n’t go to sleep again for think¬ 
ing of it, and I got so hungry, and I came down as soon 
as it was light enough, to get something to eat, and I 
saw the light under your door and I was sure it was 
worse. Wake called to me and he said Wright had come 
for you.” 

“Yes, Wright came.” 

He went to the range and held his hands over it. He 
was chilled through. She studied him out of the sides 
of her eyes. He looked aloof, unapproachable, but after 
a moment he said, gently: — 

“ Make me a cup of tea, like a good kid. I’m starved 
with the cold in that damned stable. The kettle’s 
singing.” 

She slid from the table and got the kitchen teapot, fat, 
brown, shiny, with a nicked spout. She dared not ask 
him about the colt. She cut some fresh bread and spread 
it, thinking how strange it was to be in the kitchen at this 
hour with Renny, just like Rags and Mrs. Wragge. The 
immense, low-ceiled room, with its beamed ceiling and 
now unused stone fireplace, was heavy with memories of 
the past, long-gone Christmas dinners, christening feasts, 
endless roasts and boilings. The weariness, the bicker¬ 
ings, the laughter, the love-making of generations of 
servant maids and men. All the gossip that had been 
carried down with the trays, concerning the carryings on 
of those who occupied the regions above, had settled in 
this basement, soaked into every recess. Here lay the 
very soul of Jalna. 

Renny sat down by the table. His thin, highly colored 
face looked worn. Straws clung to his coat. His hands, 


A VARIETY OF SCENES 257 

which he had washed at a basin in the scullery, looked red 
and chapped. To Pheasant, suddenly, he was not im¬ 
posing, but pathetic. She bent over him, putting her arm 
around his shoulders. 

“Is it dead?” she whispered. 

He nodded, scowling. Then she saw that there were 
tears in his eyes. She clasped him to her, and they cried 
together. 


XX 

MERRY GENTLEMEN 


Early in December, Augusta, Lady Buckley, came from 
England to visit her family. It would probably, unless 
her mother proposed to live forever, be the last Christmas 
the ancient lady would be on earth. At any rate, Augusta 
said in her letter, it would be the last visit to them in her 
own lifetime, for she felt herself too old to face the 
vagaries of ocean travel. 

“She has said that on each of her last three visits,” 
observed Nicholas. “ She makes as many farewells as 
Patti. I ’ll wager she lives to be as old as Mamma.” 

“ Never,” interrupted his mother, angrily, “ never. 
I won’t have it. She ’ll never live to see ninety.” 

“ Augusta is a handsome woman,” said Ernest. “ She 
has a dignity that is never seen now. I remember her 
as a dignified little thing when we were in shoulder 
knots.” 

“ She always has an offended air,” returned Nicholas. 
“ She looks as though something had offended her very 
deeply in early infancy and she had never got over it.” 

Mrs. Whiteoak cackled. “That’s true, Nick. It was 
on the voyage from India, when I was so sick. Your 
papa had to change her underthings, and he stuck her 
with a safety pin, poor brat! ” 

The brothers laughed callously, and each squeezed an 
arm of the old lady. She was such an entertaining old 
dear. They wondered what they should ever do without 
her. Life would never be the same when she was gone. 
They would realize then that they were old, but they 
would never quite realize it while she lived. 


MERRY GENTLEMEN 


2 59 

They were taking her for her last walk of the season. 
This always occurred on a mild day in December. After 
that she kept to the house till the first warm spring day. 
Peering out between the crimson curtains of her window, 
she would see something in the air that marked the day 
as the one for her last walk. “ Now,” she would exclaim, 
“ here goes for my last walk till spring! ” A thrill always 
ran through the house at this announcement. “Gran’s 
going for her last walk. Hullo, there, what do you 
suppose? Gran’s off for her last toddle, poor old 
dear.” 

She invariably went as far as the wicket gate in the 
hedge beside the drive, a distance of perhaps fifty yards. 
They had arrived at the gate now, and she had put out 
her hands and laid them on the warm and friendly sur¬ 
face of it. They shook a good deal from the exertion, so 
that a tremor ran through her into the gate and was re¬ 
turned like a flash of secret recognition. Those three 
had stood together at that gate nearly seventy years be¬ 
fore, when she was a lovely-shouldered young woman 
with auburn ringlets, and they two tiny boys in green 
velvet suits with embroidered cambric vests, and cocks¬ 
combs of hair atop their heads. 

They stood leaning against the gate without speaking, 
filled for the moment with quaint recollections, enjoying 
the mild warmth of the sun on their backs. Then 
Ernest: — 

“ Shall we turn back, Mamma?” 

Her head was cocked. “No. I hear horses’ hooves.” 

“She does, by gad,” said Nicholas. “You’ve better 
ears than your sons, Mamma.” 

Renny and Alayne were returning from a ride. Like 
soft thunder the sound of their galloping swept along 
the drive. Then horses and riders appeared, the tall bony 
gray mare and the bright chestnut; the long, drooping, 


260 JALNA 

gray-coated figure of the man, and the lightly poised, 
black-habited girl. 

“ Splendid! ” cried Nicholas. “ Isn’t she doing well, 
Ernie? ” 

“One would think she had ridden all her life” 

“ She’s got a good mount,” observed Renny, drawing 
in his horse, and throwing a look of pride over the chest¬ 
nut and his rider. 

Alayne’s eyes were bright with exhilaration. In rid¬ 
ing she had found something which all her life she had 
lacked, the perfect outdoor exercise. She had never been 
good at games, had never indeed cared for them, but she 
had taken to riding as a water fowl to the pond. She had 
gained strength physically and mentally. She had learned 
to love a gallop over frozen roads, against a bitter wind, 
as well as a canter in the temperate sun. 

Renny was a severe master. Nothing but a good seat 
and a seemly use of the good hands nature had given her 
satisfied him. But when at last she rode well, dashing 
along before him, bright wisps of hair blown from under 
her hat, her body light as a bird’s against the wind, he 
was filled with a voluptuous hilarity of merely living. He 
could have galloped on and on behind her, swift and arro¬ 
gant, to the end of the world. 

They rarely talked when they rode together. It was 
enough to be flying in unison along the lonely roads, with 
the lake gulls screaming and sweeping overhead. When 
they did speak it was usually about the horses. He kept a 
sharp eye on her mount, and when he tightened a girth 
for her, or adjusted a stirrup, a look into her eyes said 
more than any words. 

Sometimes Eden and Pheasant and Piers rode with 
them, and once they were joined by Maurice Vaughan, 
to Pheasant’s childlike delight. It was on this occasion 
that Eden’s horse slipped on the edge of a cliff above the 


MERRY GENTLEMEN 


261 

lake, and would have taken him to the bottom had not 
Renny caught the bridle and dragged horse and rider to 
safety. He had pushed Piers and Maurice aside to do 
this, as though with a fierce determination to save Eden 
himself. Did he covet the satisfaction, Alayne wondered 
afterward, of risking his life to save Eden’s, to make up 
to him for winning the love of his wife, or was it only 
the arrogant, protective gesture of the head of the 
family ? 

Now at any time the bitterness of winter would descend 
on them. The rides would be few. 

“Watch me,” cried Grandmother. “I’m going back 
to the house now. This is my last walk till spring. Ha 
— my old legs feel wobbly. Hold me up, Nick. You’re 
no more support than a feather bolster.” 

The three figures shuffled along the walk, scarcely 
seeming to move. The horses dropped their heads and 
began to crop the dank grass of December. 

“You’ve no idea,” said Renny, “how much the old 
lady and the two old boys mean to me.” 

His grandmother had reached the steps. He waved his 
riding crop and shouted: “Well done! Bravo, Gran! 
Now you’re safe till spring, eh?” 

“Tell them,” wheezed Gran to Nicholas, “that when 
they’ve put their nags away they’re to come and kiss 
me.” 

“ What does she say ? ” shouted Renny. 

Nicholas rumbled: “She wants to be kissed.” 

When they had installed their mother in her favorite 
chair, he said in a heavy undertone to Ernest: — 

“ Those two are getting in deeper every day. Where’s 
it going to end ? Where are Eden’s eyes ? ” 

“ Oh, my dear Nick, you imagine it. You always were 
on the lookout for that sort of thing. I’ve seen nothing. 
Still, it’s true that there is a feeling. Something in the 


262 JALNA 

air. But what can we do ? I’d hate to interfere with an 
affair of Renny’s. Besides, Alayne is not that sort of 
girl — ” 

“They’re all that sort. Show me the woman who 
wouldn’t enjoy a love affair with a man like Renny, 
especially if she were snatched up from a big city and 
hidden away in a sequestered hole like Jalna. I’d be 
tempted to have one myself if I could find a damsel de¬ 
crepit enough to fancy me.” 

Ernest regarded his brother with a tolerant smile. 

“ Well, Nick, you have had affairs enough in your day. 
You and Millicent might be — ” 

“For God’s sake, don’t say that,” interrupted Nicholas. 
“ I’d rather be dead than have that woman about me.” 

“Ah, well — ” Ernest subsided, but he murmured 
something about “a dashed sight too many affairs.” 

“Well, they’re all over, aren’t they?” Nicholas asked 
testily. “ Ashes without a spark. I can’t even remember 
their names. Did I ever kiss anyone in passion ? I can’t 
recall the sensation. What I am interested in is this case 
of Renny and Alayne; it’s serious.” 

“ He scarcely seems to notice her in the house.” 

“Notice her! Oh, my dear man — ” Nicholas bit off 
the top of a cigar, and scornfully spat it out. 

“ Well, for an instance, when the young Fennels were in 
the other night, and the gramophone was playing, Alayne 
danced oftener with them and Eden, and even young 
Finch, than with Renny. I only saw her dance with him 
once.” 

Nicholas said, pityingly: “My poor blind old brother! 
They only danced together once because once was all they 
could stand of it. I saw them dancing in the hall. It 
was dim there. Her face had gone white, and her eyes 
— well, I don’t believe they saw anything. He moved 
like a man in a dream. He’d a stiff smile on his face, as 


MERRY GENTLEMEN 263 

though he’d put it on for convenience: a mask. It’s 
serious with him this time, and I don’t like it.” 

“ There will be a pretty row if Eden gets on to it.” 

“ Eden won’t notice. He’s too damned well wrapped 
up in himself. But I wonder Meggie hasn’t.” 

Ernest took up a newspaper and glanced at the date. 
“ The seventeenth. Just fancy. Augusta will arrive in 
Montreal to-morrow. I expect the poor thing has had a 
terrible passage. She always chooses such bad months 
for crossing.” He wanted to change the subject. It 
upset his digestion to talk about the affairs of Renny and 
Alayne. Besides, he thought that Nicholas exaggerated 
the seriousness of it. They might be rather too inter¬ 
ested in each other, but they were both too sensible to 
let the interest go to dangerous lengths. He looked for¬ 
ward to seeing Augusta; he and she had always been 
congenial. 

She arrived two days later. She had made the passage 
without undue discomfort, never indeed missing a meal, 
though most of the passengers had been very ill. She 
had become such a hardened traveler in her infancy that 
it lay almost beyond the power of the elements now to 
disarrange her. 

Lady Buckley was like a table set for an elaborate 
banquet at which the guests would never arrive. Her 
costume was intricate, elegant, with the elegance of a 
bygone day, unapproachable. No one would ever dare 
to rumple her with a healthy hug. Even old Mrs. White- 
oak held her in some awe, though behind her back she 
made ribald and derisive remarks about her. She re¬ 
sented Augusta’s title, pretended that she could not re¬ 
call it, and had always spoken to her acquaintances of 
“my daughter, Lady Buntley — or Bunting — or Bant¬ 
ling.” 

Augusta wore her hair in the dignified curled fringe of 


264 JALNA 

Queen Alexandra. It was scarcely gray, though whether 
through the kindness of nature or art was not known. 
She wore high collars fastened by handsome brooches. 
She had a long tapering waist and shapely hands and feet, 
the latter just showing beneath the hem of her rather full 
skirt. That air of having never recovered from some 
deep offense, of which Nicholas had spoken, was perhaps 
suggested by the poise of her head, which always seemed 
to be drawn back as though in recoil. She had strongly 
arched eyebrows, dark eyes, become somewhat glassy 
from age, the Court nose in a modified form, and a mouth 
that nothing could startle from its lines of complacent 
composure. She was an extremely well preserved woman, 
who, though she was older than Nicholas or Ernest, 
looked many years younger. Since it was her fate to 
have been born in a colony, she was glad it had been India 
and not Canada. She thought of herself as absolutely 
English, refuting as an unhappy accident her mother's 
Irish birth. 

She was most favorably impressed by Alayne. She 
was pleased by a certain delicate sobriety of speech and 
bearing that Alayne had acquired from much association 
with her parents. 

“ She is neither hoydenish nor pert, as so many modern 
girls are,” she observed to her mother, in her deep, well- 
modulated voice. 

“ Got a good leg on her, too,” returned the old lady, 
grinning. 

Lady Buckley and Alayne had long conversations to¬ 
gether. The girl found beneath the remote exterior a 
kind and sympathetic nature. Lady Buckley was fond of 
all her nephews, but especially of the young boys. She 
would tell old-fashioned stories, some of them unex¬ 
pectedly blood-curdling, to Wakefield by the hour. She 
would sit very upright beside Finch while he practised his 


MERRY GENTLEMEN 


265 

music lesson, composedly praising and criticizing, and the 
boy seemed to like her presence in the room. She en¬ 
deared herself to Alayne by being kind to Pheasant. 
“Let us ignore her mother’s birth,” she said, blandly. 
“ Her father is of a fine old English military family, and, 
if her parents were not married — well, many of the 
nobility sprang from illegitimate stock. I quite like the 
child.” 

It was soon evident that Meg resented her aunt’s 
attitude toward Piers’s marriage, her admiration for 
Alayne, and her influence over Finch and Wakefield. She 
first showed her resentment by eating even less than for¬ 
merly at the table. It would have been a marvel how she 
kept so sleek and plump had one not known of those 
tempting secret trays carried to her by Rags, who, if he 
were loyal and devoted to anyone on earth, was loyal 
and devoted to Miss Whiteoak. 

She then took to sitting a great deal with her grand¬ 
mother with the door shut against the rest of the family, 
and a blazing fire on the hearth. The old lady thrived 
on the scorching air and gossip. There was nothing she 
enjoyed more than “hauling Augusta over the coals” 
behind her back. To her face she gave her a grudging 
respect. Since Augusta approved of Finch’s music les¬ 
sons, it was inevitable that his practising should prove a 
torture to the old lady. 

“Gran simply cannot stand those terrible scales and 
chromatics, ” Meg said to Renny. “ Just at the hour in 
the day when she usually feels her brightest, her nerves 
are set on edge. At her age it’s positively dangerous.” 

“If the boy were taking lessons from Miss Pink,” re¬ 
torted Renny, bitterly, “the practising wouldn’t disturb 
Gran in the least.” 

“Why, Renny, Gran never objected to his taking from 
Mr. Rogers! It doesn’t matter to her whom he takes 


266 JALNA 

from, though certainly Miss Pink would never have 
taught him to hammer as he insists on doing.” 

“No, she would have taught him to tinkle out little 
tunes with no more pep than a toy music box. If the 
youngster is musical, he’s going to be properly taught. 
Alayne says he’s very talented.” 

The words were scarcely out before he knew he had 
made a fatal mistake in quoting Alayne’s opinion. He 
saw Meg’s face harden; he saw her lips curl in a cruel 
little smile. He floundered. 

“Oh, well, anyone can see that he’s got talent. I saw 
it long ago; that is why I chose Mr. Rogers.” 

She made no reply for a moment, but still smiled, her 
soft blue eyes searching his. Then she said: — 

“ I don’t think you realize, Renny, how strange your 
attitude toward Alayne is becoming. You have almost 
a possessive air. Sometimes I think it would be better 
if Eden had never brought her here. I ’ve tried to like 
her, but — ” 

“Oh, my God!” said Renny, wheeling, and beginning 
to stride away. “You women make me sick. There’s 
no peace with you. Imagine the entire family by the ears 
because of a kid’s music lessons!” He gave a savage 
laugh. 

Meg, watching him flounder, was aware of depths she 
had only half suspected. She said: — 

“It’s not that. It’s not that. It’s the feeling that 
there’s something wrong — some sinister influence at 
work. From the day Eden brought the girl here I was 
afraid.” 

“Afraid of what?” 

“Afraid of something in her. Something fatal and 
dangerous. First she wormed her way — ” 

“'Wormed her way’! Oh, Meggie, for heaven’s 
sake!” 


MERRY GENTLEMEN 


267 

“Yes, she did! She literally wormed her way into the 
confidence of the uncles. Then she captivated poor 
Finch. Just because she told him he was musical, he 
is willing to practise till he’s worn out and Grannie is 
ill. Then she turned Wake against me. He won’t mind 
a thing I say. And now you, Renny! But this is danger¬ 
ous. Different. Oh, I’ve seen it coming.” 

He had recovered himself. 

“ Meggie,” he said, stifling her in a rough tweed hug, 
“ if you would ever eat a decent meal, — you know you 
literally starve yourself, — and ever go out anywhere for 
a change, you wouldn’t get such ideas into your head. 
They ’re not like you. You are so sane, so well balanced. 
None of us has as sound a head as you. I depend on 
you in every way. You know that.” 

She collapsed, weeping on his shoulder, overwhelmed 
by this primitive masculine appeal. But she was not 
convinced. Her sluggish nature was roused to activ¬ 
ity against the machinations of Alayne and Lady 
Buckley. 

That evening when Finch went to the drawing-room 
to practise he found the piano locked. He sought Renny 
in the harness room of the stable. 

“Look here,” Finch burst out, almost crying, “what 
do you suppose? They’ve gone and locked me out. I 
can’t practise my lesson. They’ve been after me for a 
week about it, and now I’m locked out.” 

Renny, pipe in mouth, continued to gaze in whole- 
souled admiration at a new russet saddle. 

“Renny,” bawled Finch, “don’t you hear? They’ve 
locked me out of the drawing-room, and I met Rags in the 
hall and he gave one of his beastly grins and said, ‘ Ow, 
Miss W’iteoak ’as locked up that pianer. She’s not goin’ 
to ’ave any pianer playin’ in the ’ouse till the old lidy’s 
recovered. She’s in a pretty bad w’y, she is, with all your 


268 JALNA 

rattlety-bangin’.’ I’d like to know what I’m to do. I 
may as well throw the whole thing up if I’m not allowed 
to practise.” 

Renny made sympathetic noises against the stem of his 
pipe and continued to gaze at the saddle. 

Finch drove his hands into his pockets and slumped 
against the door jamb. He felt calmer now. Renny 
would do something, he was sure, but he dreaded a row 
with himself the centre of it. 

At last the elder Whiteoak spoke. “ I ’ll tell you what 
I’ll do, Finch. I’ll ask Vaughan if you may practise 
on his piano. I’m sure he would n’t mind. The house¬ 
keeper ’s deaf, so her nerves won’t be upset. I ’ll have the 
piano tuned. It used to be a good one. Then you ’ll be 
quite independent.” 

Soon young Finch might be seen plunging through 
the ravine on the dark December afternoons to the 
shabby, unused drawing-room at Vaughanlands. He 
brought new life to the old piano, and it, like land that 
had lain fallow for many years, responded joyfully to his 
labor, and sent up a stormy harvest of sound that shook 
the prismed chandelier. Often he was late for the eve¬ 
ning meal, and would take what he could get in the 
kitchen from Mrs. Wragge. Several times Maurice 
Vaughan asked him to have his supper with him, and 
Finch felt very much a man, sitting opposite Maurice 
with a glass of beer beside him, and no question about 
his smoking. 

Maurice always managed to bring the conversation 
around to Meggie. It was difficult for Finch to find any¬ 
thing pleasant to tell about her in these days, but he dis¬ 
covered that Maurice was even more interested to hear 
of her cantankerousness than her sweetness. It seemed 
to give him a certain glum satisfaction to know that 
things were at sixes and sevens with her. 


MERRY GENTLEMEN 


269 

Finch had not been so happy since he was a very little 
fellow. He had perhaps never been so happy. He dis¬ 
covered in himself a yearning for perfection in the inter¬ 
pretation of his simple musical exercises, which he had 
never had in his Latin translations or his Math. He 
discovered that he had a voice. All the way home through 
the black ravine he would sing, sometimes at the top of 
his lungs, sometimes in a tender, melancholy undertone. 

But how his school work suffered! His report at the 
end of the term was appalling. As Eden said, he out- 
Finched himself. In the storm that followed, his one 
consolation was that a large share of the blame was 
hurled at Renny. However, that did him little good in 
the end, for Renny turned on him, cursing him for a 
young shirker and threatening to stop the lessons al¬ 
together. Aunt Augusta and Alayne stood by him, but 
with caution. Augusta did not want her visit to become 
too unpleasant, and Alayne had come to regard her posi¬ 
tion in the house as a voyageur making his difficult prog¬ 
ress among treacherous rocks and raging rapids. She 
could endure it till the New Year — when Eden was to 
take a position in town which Mr. Evans had got for 
him — and no longer. 

At this moment, when Finch, a naked wretch at the 
cart’s tail, with fingers of scorn pointing at him from all 
directions, alternately contemplated running away and 
suicide, he suddenly ceased to be an object of more than 
passing scorn, and little Wakefield took the centre of the 
stage. Piers had for some time been missing cartridges. 
Wake had for an equal length of time seemed to have 
an unlimited supply of marshmallows. And a sneaking 
stableboy had “ split,” and it was discovered that Wake 
was emptying the cartridges, making neat little packets 
of the gunpowder, and selling it to the village boys for 
their own peculiar violences. 


270 JALNA 

When cornered, Wake had denied all knowledge of 
gunpowder, whether in cartridges or bulk. But Meg and 
Piers, searching his little desk, had come upon the neat 
little packets, all ready to sell, with a box full of coppers, 
and even a carefully written account of sales and pay¬ 
ments. It was serious. Meg said he must be whipped. 
The young Whiteoaks had set no high standard of moral¬ 
ity for a little brother to live up to, but still this was too 
bad. 

“Flog him well,” said Gran. “The Courts stole, but 
they never lied about it.” 

“ The Whiteoaks,” said .Nicholas, “often lied, but they 
never stole.” 

Ernest murmured: “ Wakefield seems to combine the 
vices of both sides.” 

“ He’s a little rotter,” said Piers, “ and it’s got to be 
taken out of him.” 

Alayne was aghast at the thought of the airy and 
gentle Wake being subjected to the indignity of physical 
punishment. “ Oh, could n’t he please get off this time ? ” 
she begged. “ I’m sure he ’ll never do such a thing 
again.” 

Piers gave a short scornful laugh. “ The trouble with 
that kid is he’s been utterly ruined. If you’ll let me 
attend to him, I’ll wager he doesn’t pinch anything 
more.” 

“I strongly disapprove of a delicate child like Wake¬ 
field being made to suffer,” said Lady Buckley. 

The culprit, listening in the hall, put his head between 
the curtains at this and showed his little white, tear- 
stained face. 

“Go away, sir,” said Nicholas. “We’re discussing 
you.” 

“Please, please — ” 

Renny, who had been captured for the conclave and 


MERRY GENTLEMEN 271 

who stood gloomily, cap in hand, with snow-crusted 
leggings, turned to go. “ Well, I’m off.” 

“Renny!” cried his sister, peremptorily. “Why are 
you going? You have got to whip Wake.” The op¬ 
position of Alayne and Augusta had turned her 
sisterly anxiety to correct the child into relentless 
obstinacy. 

Renny stood with bent head, looking sulkily into his 
cap. “The last time I licked him, he shivered and cried 
half the night. I ’ll not do it again.” And he turned 
into the hall, pushing Wakefield aside and slamming the 
front door behind him. 

“ Well, of all the damned sloppiness! ” broke out Piers. 

“Don’t worry,” said Meg, rising. “Wakefield shall 
be punished.” Her immobile sweet face was a shade 
paler than usual. 

“ This is n’t a woman’s job,” declared Piers. “ I ’ll do it.” 

“No. You’ll be too hard on him.” 

“Let me flog the boy,” cried Grandmother. “I’ve 
flogged boys before now. I Ve flogged Augusta. 
Haven’t I, Augusta? Get me my stick!” Her face 
purpled with excitement. 

“Mamma, Mamma,” implored Ernest, “this is very 
bad for you.” 

“Fan her,” said Nicholas. “She’s a terrible'color.” 

Meg led Wakefield up the stairs. Piers, following her 
to the foot, entreated: “ Now, for heaven’s sake don’t get 
chicken-hearted. If you’re going to do it, do it thor¬ 
oughly.” 

“Oh, don’t you wish it were you?” exclaimed Pheas¬ 
ant, tugging at his arm. 

“ Which ? ” he laughed. “ Giving or getting one ? ” 

“ Getting, of course. It would do you good.” 

Nicholas and Ernest also came into the hall, and after 
them shuffled Grandmother, so exhilarated that she 


272 JALNA 

walked alone, thumping her stick on the floor and mut¬ 
tering : “ I’ve flogged boys before now.” 

Finch draped himself against the newel post and 
thought of thrashings of his own. Augusta and Alayne 
shut themselves in the living room. 

Eden came out of his room above to discover the cause 
of the disturbance, but Meg would not speak. With set 
face she pushed Wakefield before her into her room and 
closed the door. However, Piers, in vehement tones, 
sketched the recent criminal career of the youngest 
Whiteoak. 

Eden perched on the handrail, gazing down at the 
faces of his brothers, uncles, and grandmother with de¬ 
light. He said, dangling a leg: — 

“You’re priceless. It’s worth being interrupted in 
the very heart of a tropic poem to see your faces down 
there. You ’re like paintings by the great masters: Old 
Woman with Stick. The Cronies (that’s Uncle Nick 
and Uncle Ernest). Young Man with Red Face (you, 
Piers). Village Idiot (you, Finch). As a matter of 
fact, I was at my wit’s end for a rhyme. Perhaps brother 
Wake, in his anguish, will supply me with one.” 

“What’s he saying?” asked Gran. “I won’t have any 
of his back chat.” 

Ernest replied mildly: “ He is just saying that we look 
as pretty as pictures, Mamma.” 

“ She’s beginning at last,” announced Piers, grinning. 

A sound of sharp blows cascaded from Meg’s room, 
blows that carried the tingling impact of bare skin. Stac¬ 
cato feminine blows, that ceased as suddenly as they 
had begun. 

“ He’s not crying, poor little beggar,” said Eden. 

“ That’s because he’s not hurt,” stormed Piers. “ What 
does the woman think she’s doing? Giving love taps to 
a kitten? Good Lord! She’d hardly begun till she’d 


MERRY GENTLEMEN 


2 73 

stopped. Hi, Meggie, what’s the matter? Aren’t you 
going to lick the kid ? ” 

Meg appeared at the door of her room. “I have 
whipped him. What do you want me to do ? ” 

“ You don’t mean to say that you call that a licking? 
Better not touch him at all. It’s a joke.” 

“Yes,” agreed Nicholas, “if you’re going to tan a 
boy, do it thoroughly.” 

Grandmother said, her foot on the bottom step: “ I’d 
do it thoroughly. Let me at him! ” 

“Steady on, Mamma,” said Nicholas. “You can’t 
climb up there.” 

“For God’s sake, Meggie,” exclaimed Piers, “go 
back and give him something he’ll remember for more 
than five minutes!” 

“ Yes, yes, Meggie,” said Ernest, “ a little swishing like 
that is worse than nothing.” 

“ Give him a real one! Give him a real one! ” bawled 
Finch, suddenly stirred to ferocity. He had suffered, 
by God! Let that pampered little Wake suffer for a 
change. 

Boney screamed: “Jab kutr! Nimak haram! Chore!” 

Meg swept to the top of the stairs. “You are like a 
pack of wolves,” she said at white heat, “ howling for the 
blood of one poor little lamb. Wake is not going to get 
one more stroke, so you may as well go back to your 
lairs.” 

Eden threw his arms about her, and laid his head on 
her comfortable shoulder. 

“How I love my family!” he exclaimed. “To think 
that after the New Year I shall be out of it all. Miss 
such lovely scenes as this.” 

Meg did not try to understand Eden. She knew that 
he was pleased with her because he hugged her, and that 
was enough. 


274 JALNA 

“Do you blame me for telling just how heartless I 
thought they were?” 

“You were perfectly right, old girl.” 

“ Eden, I hope you won’t mind what I’m going to say, 
but I do wish Alayne would not interfere between me 
and the children. She has such ideas.” 

“Oh, she has the habit of wanting to set everything 
right. She’s the same with me. Always telling me how 
unmethodical I am, and how untidy with my things. She 
means well enough. It’s just her little professorial 
ways.” 

“Poor lamb!” said Meggie, stroking the shining 
casque of his hair. 

Wake’s voice came, broken by sobs: “ Meggie! ” 

Meg disengaged herself from Eden’s arms. “There, 
now, I must go to him, and tell him he’s forgiven.” 

The party downstairs had retreated after Meggie’s at¬ 
tack, leaving a trail of wrangling behind them. Piers 
reached for his cap, and, stopping at the door of his 
grandmother’s room, said, loud enough for Alayne to 
hear: “They’re spoiling the two kids among them, 
anyway. As for Eden, he’s no better than another 
woman! ” 

“ He’s like his poor flibbertigibbet mother,” said Gran. 

The cloud under which Wakefield awoke next morning 
was no more than a light mist, soon dispelled by the sun 
of returning favor. Before the day was over he was his 
own dignified, airy, and graceless self again, a little sub¬ 
dued perhaps, a little more anxious to please, a shade 
more subtle in the game of his life. 

The game of life went on at Jalna. A stubborn heavy 
game, requiring not so much agility of mind as staying 
power and a thick skin. The old red house, behind the 
shelter of spruce and balsam, drew into itself as the win- 


MERRY GENTLEMEN 


2 75 


ter settled in. It became the centre of whirling snow 
flurries. Later on, its roof, its gables, and all its lesser 
projections became bearers of a weight of slumberous, 
unspotted snow. It was guarded by snow trees. It was 
walled by a snow hedge. It was decked, festooned, titi¬ 
vated by snow wreaths, garlands, and downy flakes. The 
sky leaned down toward it. The frozen earth pressed 
under it. Its habitants were cut off from the rest of the 
world. Except for occasional tracks in the snow, there 
was little sign of their existence. Only at night dim 
lights showed through the windows, not illuminating the 
rooms, but indicating by their mysterious glow that 
human beings were living, loving, suffering, desiring, be¬ 
neath that roof. 

Christmas came. 

Books for Alayne from New York, with a chastely 
engraved card enclosed from Mr. Cory. More books, 
and a little framed etching from the aunts up the Hudson. 
An overblouse, in which she would have frozen at Jalna, 
from Rosamund Trent. Alayne carried them about, show¬ 
ing them, and then laid them away. They seemed unreal. 

There were no holly wreaths at Jalna. No great red 
satin bows. But the banister was twined with evergreens, 
and a sprig of mistletoe was suspended from the hanging 
lamp in the hall. In the drawing-room a great Christmas 
tree towered toward the ceiling, bristling with the strange 
fruit of presents for the family, from Grandmother down 
to little Wake. 

A rich hilarity drew them all together that day. They 
loved the sound of each other's voices; they laughed on 
the least provocation; by evening, the young men showed 
a tendency toward horseplay. There was a late dinner, 
dominated by the largest turkey Alayne had ever seen. 
There was a black and succulent plum pudding with 
brandy sauce. There were native sherry and port. The 


276 JALNA 

Fennels were there; the two daughters of the re¬ 
tired admiral; and lonely little Miss Pink, the organist. 
Mr. Fennel proposed Grandmother’s health, in a toast so 
glowing with metaphor and prickling with wit that she 
suggested that if he were three sheets in the wind on 
Sunday he would preach a sermon worth hearing. The 
admiral’s daughters and Miss Pink were flushed and 
steadily smiling in the tranced gayety induced by wine. 
Meg was soft and dimpled as a young girl. 

A great platter of raisins smothered in flaming brandy 
was carried in by Rags, wearing the exalted air of an 
acolyte. 

Seeing Rags’s hard face in that strange light carried 
Renny as in a dream to another very different scene. 
He saw Rags bent over a saucepan in a dugout in France, 
wearing a filthy uniform, and, oddly enough, that same 
expression. But why, he could not remember. He had 
picked Rags up in France. Renny looked up into his 
eyes with a smile, and a queer worshiping grin spread 
over Rags’s grim hard-bitten face. 

The raisins were placed on the table in the midst of 
the company. Tortured blue flames leaped above them, 
quivering, writhing, and at last dying into quick-running 
ripples. Hands, burnished like brass, stretched out to 
snatch the raisins. Wake’s, with its round child’s wrist; 
Finch’s, bony and predatory; Piers’s, thick, muscular; 
Grandmother’s, dark, its hook-like fingers glittering with 
jewels — all the grasping, eager hands and the watchful 
faces behind them illuminated by the flare; Gran’s eyes 
like coals beneath her beetling red brows. 

Pheasant’s hands fluttered like little brown birds. She 
was afraid of getting burned. Again and again the blue 
flames licked them and they darted back. 

“You are a little silly,” said Renny. “Make a dash 
for them, or they ’ll be gone.” 


MERRY GENTLEMEN 


2 77 

She set her teeth and plunged her hand into the flames. 
“ Oh — oh, I’m going to be burned! ” 

“You’ve only captured two,” laughed Eden, on her 
other side, and laid a glossy cluster on her plate. 

Renny saw Eden’s hand slide under the table and 
cover hers in her lap. His eyes sought Eden’s and held 
them a moment. They gazed with narrowed lids, each 
seeing something in the other that startled him. Scarcely 
was this unrecognized something seen when it was gone, 
as a film of vapor that changes for a moment the clarity 
of the well known landscape and shows a scene obscure, 
even sinister — The shadow passed, and they smiled, and 
Eden withdrew his hand. 

Under the mistletoe Mr. Fennel, Grandmother having 
been carefully steered that way by two grandsons, caught 
and kissed her, his beard rough, her cap askew. 

Uncle Ernest, a merry gentlemen that night, caught 
and kissed Miss Pink, who most violently became Miss 
Scarlet. 

Tom Fennel caught and kissed Pheasant. “ Here now, 
Tom, you fathead, cut that out!” from Piers. 

Finch, seeing everything double after two glasses of 
wine, caught and kissed two white-shouldered Alaynes. 
It was the first time she had worn an evening dress since 
her marriage. 

Nicholas growled to Ernest: “Did you ever see a 
hungry wolf ? Look at Renny glowering in that corner. 
Isn’t Alayne lovely to-night?” 

“Everything’s lovely,” said Ernest, rocking on his 
toes. “ Such a nice Christmas! ” 

They played charades and dumb crambo. 

To see Grandmother (inadvertently shouting out the 
name of the syllable she was acting) as Queen Victoria, 
and Mr. Fennel as Gladstone! 

To see Meg as Mary, Queen of Scots, with Renny as 


278 JALNA 

executioner, all but cutting off her head with the knife 
with which he had carved the turkey! 

To see Alayne as the Statue of Liberty, holding a 
bedroom lamp on high (“Look out, Alayne, don’t tilt it 
so; you’ll have the house on fire!”), and Finch as a 
hungry immigrant! 

You saw the family of Jalna at their happiest in exu¬ 
berant play. 

Even when the guests were gone and the Whiteoaks 
getting ready for bed, they could not settle down. Er¬ 
nest, in shirt and trousers, prowled through the dim hall¬ 
way, a pillow from his bed in one hand. He stopped at 
Renny’s door. It was ajar. He could see Renny wind¬ 
ing his watch, Wake sitting up in bed, chattering ex¬ 
citedly. Ernest hurled the pillow at Renny’s head. He 
staggered, bewildered by the unexpected blow, and 
dropped his watch. 

“ By Judas,” he said, “ if I get you! ” With his pillow 
he started in pursuit. 

“A pillow fight! A pillow fight!” cried Wake, and 
scrambled out of bed. 

Ernest had got as far as his brother’s room. “Nick,” 
he shouted, in great fear, “ save me! ” 

Nicholas, his gray mane on end, was up and into it. 
Piers, like a bullet, sped down the hall. Finch, dragged 
from slumber, had barely reached the scene of conflict 
when a back-handed blow from Eden’s pillow laid him 
prostrate. 

Nicholas’s room was a wreck. Up and down the pas¬ 
sage the combatants surged. The young men forgot their 
loves, their fears, their jealousies, the two elderly 
men their years, in the ecstasy of physical, half-naked 
conflict. 

“Boys, boys!” cried Meg, drawing aside her chenille 
curtain. 


MERRY GENTLEMEN 


279 

“ Steady on, old lady! ” and a flying pillow drove her 
into retreat. 

Pheasant appeared at her door, her short hair all on 
end. “May I play, too?” she cried, hopping up and 
down. 

“Back to your hole, little hedgehog!” said Renny, 
giving her a feathery thump as he passed. 

He was after Nicholas, who had suddenly become cog¬ 
nizant of his gout and could scarcely hobble. Piers and 
Finch were after him. They cornered him, and Nicho¬ 
las, from being the well-nigh exhausted quarry, became 
the aggressor, and helped to belabor him. 

Eden stood at the top of the stairs, laughingly holding 
off little Wake, who was manfully wielding a long old- 
fashioned bolster. Ernest, with one last hilarious fling 
in him, stole forth from his room, and hurled a solid sofa 
cushion at the pair. It struck Eden on the chest. He 
backed. He missed his footing. He fell. Down the 
stairs he went, crashing with a noise that aroused Grand¬ 
mother, who began to rap the floor with her stick. 

“What’s up? What have you done?” asked Renny. 

“ My God, I Ve knocked the lad downstairs. What if 
I’ve killed him!” 

The brothers streamed helter-skelter down the stairs. 

“Oh, those bloody stairs,” groaned Eden. “I’ve 
twisted my leg. I can’t get up.” 

“ Don’t move, old fellow.” They began to feel him all 
over. The women emerged from their rooms. 

“I have been expecting an accident,” said Augusta, 
looking more offended than usual. 

“Oh, whatever is the matter?” cried Alayne. 

Ernest answered, wringing his hands: “ Can you ever 
forgive me, Alayne? Piers says I’ve broken Eden’s leg.” 


XXI 

EDEN AND PHEASANT 


Six weeks had passed, and Eden was still unable to leave 
his room. As well as a broken leg, he had got a badly 
wrenched back. However, after the first suffering was 
over, he had not had such a bad time. It was almost 
with regret that he heard the hearty red-faced doctor say 
that morning that he would soon be as fit as ever. It had 
been rather jolly lying there, being taken care of, listen¬ 
ing to the complaints of others about the severity of the 
weather, the depth of the snowdrifts, and the impossi¬ 
bility of getting anywhere with the car. The inactivity 
of body had seemed to generate a corresponding activity 
of mind. Never had he composed with less effort. 
Poetry flowed through him in an exuberant crystal 
stream. Alayne had sat by his couch and written the 
first poems out for him in her beautifully legible hand, 
but now he was able to sit up with a pad on his knee and 
scrawl them in his own way — decorating the margins 
with fanciful sketches in illustration. 

Alayne had been a dear through it all. She had nursed 
him herself, fetching and carrying from the basement 
kitchen to their room without complaint, though he knew 
he had been hard to wait on in those first weeks. She 
looked abominably tired. Those brick basement stairs 
were no joke. Her face seemed to have grown broader, 
flatter, with a kind of Teutonic patience in it that made 
him remember her mother had been of Dutch extraction, 
several generations ago; it was there — the look of 
solidity and patience. A benevolent, tolerant face it 
might become in later life, but plainer, certainly. 


EDEN AND PHEASANT 


281 

She must have been disappointed, too, at his inability 
to take the position got for him by Mr. Evans at the New 
Year. Though she had not said much about it, he knew 
that she was eager to leave Jalna and have a house of 
their own. He had refused to let her put her money into 
the buying of one, but he had agreed that, he paying the 
rent from his salary, she might buy the furniture. She 
had talked a good deal about just how she would furnish 
it. When his leg was paining and he could not sleep, it 
was one of her favorite ways of soothing him, to stroke 
his head and furnish each of the rooms in turn. She had 
chosen the furniture for his workroom with great care, 
and also that for his bedroom and hers. He had been 
slightly aggrieved that she spoke of separate rooms, 
though upon reflection he had decided that it would be 
rather pleasant to be able to scatter his belongings all 
over his room without the feeling that he was seriously 
disturbing her. She was too serious: that was a fact. 
She had a way of making him feel like a naughty boy. 
That had been charming at first, but often now it irri¬ 
tated him. 

There was something strange about her of late. Re¬ 
mote, inward-gazing. He hoped and prayed she was n’t 
going to be mopey. A mopey wife would be disastrous 
to him, weigh on his spirits most dreadfully. She had 
slept on the couch in their room during the first weeks 
after the accident, when he had needed a good deal of 
waiting on at night. Later, she had taken all her things 
and moved to a big low-ceiled room in the attic. She 
spent hours of her time there now. Of course, all he had 
to do was to ring the little silver bell at his side, and she 
came flying down the stairs to him, but he could not help 
wondering what she did up there all alone. Not that he 
wanted her with him continually, but he could not forgive 
her for seeking solitude. He was really very happy. He 


282 JALNA 

was well except for a not unpleasant feeling of lassitude. 
He had also a feeling of exquisite irresponsibility and ir¬ 
relevance. This interval in his life he accepted as a gift 
from the gods. It was a time of inner development, 
of freedom of spirit, of ease from the shackles of 
life. 

He had scarcely felt the chafing of those shackles yet, 
and he did not want to feel them. He should have been 
a lone unicorn, stamping in inconsequent gayety over 
sultry Southern plains, leaving bonds to tamer spirits. 

He was just thinking this, and smiling at the thought 
when Pheasant came into the room. She was carrying 
a plate of little red apples, and she wore the vivid smock 
bought for her by Alayne. 

“Meggie sent you those,” she said, setting the plate 
beside him. “As a matter of fact, I think you eat too 
much. You ’re not as slim as you were.” 

“Well, it’s a wonder I’m not thin,” he returned with 
some heat. “ God knows I’ve suffered! ” He bit into an 
apple, and continued: “You’ve never had any real sym¬ 
pathy for me, Pheasant.” 

She looked at him, astonished. 

“Why, I thought I’d been lovely to you! I’ve sat 
with you, and listened to your old poetry, and told you 
what a wonder you are. What more do you want ? ” 

He reclined, drumming his fingers on the afghan that 
lay over him, a faint smile shadowing, rather than light¬ 
ing, his face. 

She examined his features and then said darkly: 
“You’re too clever, that’s what’s the matter with 
you.” 

“ My dear little Pheasant, don’t call me by such a horrid 
word. I’m not clever. I’m only natural. You’re 
natural. That is why we get on so famously.” 

“We don’t get on,” she returned, indignantly. “ Uncle 


EDEN AND PHEASANT 283 

Ernest was saying only the other day what a pity it 
is you and I quarrel so much.” 

“ He ’s an old ninny.” 

“You ought to be ashamed to say that. He has done 
everything in his power to make up to you for hurting 
you. He has read to you by the hour. I don’t think 
he ’ll ever get over the shock of seeing you hurtle down 
stairs with his pillow on top of you.” 

“ I agree with you. It was the most exhilarating thing 
that has happened to him in years. He looks ten years 
younger. To have knocked an athletic young fellow 
downstairs and broken his leg! Just when he began to 
feel the feebleness of old age creeping on! Why, he’s 
like a young cockerel that’s saluted the dawn with its 
first crow.” 

“ I think you ’re sardonic.” 

“And I think you’re delicious. I especially admire 
your wisdom, and that little tuft of hair that stands up 
on your crown. But I do wish you’d put it down. It 
excites me.” 

She passed her hand over it. 

“Do you know,” he said, “that you pass your hand 
over your head exactly as I do. We have several identical 
gestures. I believe our gesture toward life is the same.” 

“I think your greatest gift,” she said, stiffly, “is 
flattery. You know just how to make a woman pleased 
with herself.” 

She was such a ridiculous little child, playing at being 
grown up, that he could scarcely keep from laughing at 
her. Neither could he keep the tormenting image of her 
from his mind when she was away from him. He lay 
back on the pillow and closed his eyes. 

Outside, the snow-covered lawns and fields, unmarked 
by the track of a human being, stretched in burnished, 
rosy whiteness toward the sunset. The pines and hem- 


284 JALNA 

locks, clothed in the sombre grandeur of their winter 
foliage, threw shadows of an intense, translucent blue¬ 
ness. And in the hard bright intensity of that northern 
ether, every smallest twig was bitten against its back¬ 
ground as though with acid. An atmosphere hateful to 
those who see it in alien loneliness, but of the essence 
and goodness of life to the native bom. 

When Eden opened his eyes and turned toward her, 
she was looking out on this scene. He thought there 
was a frightened look in her eyes. A faint sound of 
music came from Uncle Nick’s room. He was playing 
his piano as he often did at this hour. 

“ Pheasant.” 

“Yes?” 

“You look odd. Rather frightened.” 

“ I’m not a bit frightened.” 

“Not of me, of course. But of yourself?” 

“Yes, I am rather frightened of myself, and I don’t 
even know why. I believe it’s that wild-looking sky. 
In a minute it will be dark and so cold. You’ll need a 
fire here.” 

“ I am on fire, Pheasant.” 

He found her hand and held it. He asked: “ Do you 
think Alayne loves me any more ? ” 

“No, I don’t think she does. And you don’t deserve 
it—her love, I mean.” 

“ I don’t believe I ever had it. It was my poetry she 
loved, not me. Do you think she loves — Renny ? ” 

She stared at him, startled. “I’d never thought of 
that. Perhaps she does.” 

“A nice mix-up.” 

“ Well, I should not blame Alayne. Here she is pitch- 
forked into this weird family, with a husband who is 
absolutely devoted to himself, and a most remarkable- 
looking and affectionate brother-in-law.” 


EDEN AND PHEASANT 285 

Remarkable-looking and affectionate’! Heavens, 
what a description!” 

“ I think it’s a very good description.” 

“Well, I suppose Renny is remarkable— but ‘affec¬ 
tionate ’! That scarcely describes making love to another 
man’s wife. I don’t believe Alayne would fall for him 
unless he did make love to her. But ‘affectionate’ — I 
can’t get over that.” 

“How would you describe your holding my hand? 
That’s affectionate, is n’t it ? ” 

He took her other hand and laid both hands on his 
breast. “ I shan’t mind about anything,” he said, “ if you 
will only care for me.” He drew her closer, his face 
stained by the afterglow that transformed the matter-of- 
fact room into a strange and passionate retreat. 

Pheasant began to cry. 

“Don’t,” she implored. “Don’t do that! It’s what 
I’ve been afraid of.” 

“You care for me,” he whispered. “Oh, my darling 
little Pheasant! Say that you do — just once. Kiss me, 
then — you know you want to. It’s what you’ve been 
dreading, but — desiring, too, my dearest. There’s noth¬ 
ing to be afraid of in life; nothing to be ashamed of. 
Just be your precious self.” 

She flung herself against him, sobbing. 

She did not know whether or not she loved him, but 
she knew that that room had a sultry fascination for her, 
that the couch where Eden lay was the centre of all her 
waking thoughts, that his eyes, blazing in the afterglow, 
compelled her to do as he willed. She hated Piers for 
being absorbed in his cattle, seeing nothing of her tempta¬ 
tion, not saving her from herself, as he should have done. 
He knew that she was not like other young girls of his 
class. She had bad, loose blood. He should have watched 
her, been hard with her, as Maurice had been. His idea 


286 


JAL.NA 


was to make a “pal ” of his wife. But she was not that 
sort of wife. He should have known, oh, he should have 
known, saved her from herself — from Eden! 

As she wept against Eden's shoulder, her tears became 
no longer the warm tears of surrender, but the tears of 
black anger against Piers, who had not saved her. 






XXII 

WAKEFIELD’S BIRTHDAY 


Wakefield awoke each morning* now with a feeling of 
gay excitement. The reason for this was that Finch had 
given him his Boy Scout bugle. Finch had got over 
being a Boy Scout very quickly. The only thing about 
it that had suited him was the fact of his being a bugler. 
However, he soon tired of that, and, coming to the con¬ 
clusion that he was not the stuff of which good Boy 
Scouts are made, he gave it up entirely. To perform his 
little duties with bright alertness, to be ready, to be help¬ 
ful, to do a kind act every day, seemed beyond him. So 
he had skulked out of the organization, and locked his 
bugle in the under part of the secretary in his room, where 
Wake might not meddle with it. 

Now he had given it to Wake for his birthday. Hav¬ 
ing once decided to do this, he did not hold it till the day 
itself. The little boy had been in possession of it for a 
fortnight. And every morning he wakened with his 
nerves tingling with delicious excitement, for there, at 
the head of the bed, was the bugle, and he must not get 
up until he had sounded the reveille. It was thrilling to 
sit up in bed and send forth from swelling chest and dis¬ 
tended cheeks those glorious brazen notes. Feeble, croak¬ 
ing they might sound to the listener, but to Wake they 
were round with a noble roundness and stirring to the 
soul. 

Luckily, he was usually the last of the family to awake. 
But this morning was his birthday and he had been the 
very first. All, all had been roused by that sleep-shatter¬ 
ing reveille. Renny, stretched on his back, his arms flung 


288 JALNA 

above his head, had been dreaming of galloping on a 
great wild horse along a steep precipice. Suddenly, with 
a neigh that shook the universe, the horse had leaped over 
the precipice, and plunged with him into the sunlit 
sea. 

With a convulsive twitch of the body, Renny awoke 
into the sunlight of the early morning, his face so comic 
in its astonishment that Wakefield laughed aloud, lost 
his wind, and sputtered helplessly into the instrument. 
Then Renny laughed too, for the sight of his young 
brother sitting up in bed, so alert, so important, with hair 
on end and one dark eye cocked roguishly at him above 
one bulging cheek, was so ridiculous. He was ridiculous, 
and he was pathetic, too. “ Poor little beggar,” thought 
Renny, “a human being like myself, who will have a 
man’s feelings, a man’s queer thoughts one day.” 

“ It’s my birthday,” quoth Wakefield, wiping his chin. 

“ Many happy returns,” said Renny, trying not to look 
as though he had a delightful present for him. 

“I shall probably not live to be as old as Gran. But 
I may reach ninety if I have good care.” 

“Oh, you’ll get good care, all right. Cuddle down 
here a bit. It’s early yet.” 

Wake laid the bugle on the table at the head of the bed 
and flung himself down into the bedclothes. He bur¬ 
rowed against Renny, putting his arms about his neck. 

“ Oh! I’m so happy,” he breathed. “ A picnic to-day 
if you please. The first of the season. It’s June. The 
first of June! My birthday!” His eyes were two nar¬ 
row slits. “Renny, have you a — you know what?” 

Renny yawned prodigiously, showing two rows of 
strong teeth. “ Well, I guess I ’ll get up.” 

“Renny, Renny!” He bumped and struggled against 
his elder’s chest. “ Oh, Renny, I could kill you! ” 

“Why?” 


WAKEFIELD’S BIRTHDAY 


289 


“ ’Cos you won’t tell me.” 

“ Tell you what?” Renny held him as in a vise. 

“You know what.” 

“ How can I know if you won’t tell me ? ” 

“ Oh, you beast, Renny! It’s you who won’t tell me! ” 

“Tell you what?” 

“ Whether you have a — you know what — for me.” 

Renny closed his eyes. “You sound half-witted this 
morning,” he said, coldly. “ It seems a pity, when you’ve 
reached such an age.” 

Wakefield examined his brother’s hard, weather-bitten 
visage with its relentless-looking nose. Certainly it was 
a forbidding face. A face that belonged to a man who 
was his adored brother and who had no birthday present 
for him. 

He, too, closed his eyes, murmuring to himself: “ Oh, 
this is terrible! ” A tear trickled down his cheek and fell 
on Renny’s wrist. 

The elder Whiteoak gave the younger a little shake. 
“ Cut that out,” he said. They looked into each other’s 
eyes. 

“It nearly broke me.” 

“ What did, Renny ? ” 

“Why, the present.” 

“The present?” 

“ Rather. The birthday present.” 

“Oh, Renny, for God’s sake — ” 

“Stop your swearing.” 

“ But what is it ? ” 

“It’s,” he plunged the word into Wake’s ear, “a 
pony — a beautiful Welsh pony.” 

After the first ecstatic questions, Wake lay silent, float¬ 
ing in a golden haze of happiness. He did not want to 
miss the savor of one lovely moment of this day of days. 
First a pony, then a picnic, and in between, an orgy of 


290 JALNA 

other presents. A birthday cake with ten tall candles. 
At last he whispered: “ Is it a he or a she ? ” 

“A little mare.” 

A mare! He could hardly believe it. There would 
be colts— tiny, shaggy colts. His very own. It was 
almost too much. He wriggled against Renny. Adoring 
him. 

“When will she—oh, I say, Renny, what’s her name?” 

“ She has no name. You may name her.” 

No name. A nameless gift from the gods. Oh, re¬ 
sponsibility overpowering, to name her! 

“When will she come?” 

“ She is here, in the stable.” 

With a squeal of joy Wake leaped up in the bed; then, 
espying the bugle, he had an inspiration. 

“ Renny, would n’t it be splendid, if I’d sound the re¬ 
veille and then we’d both instantly get up? I’d like 
terribly to sound the reveille for you, Renny.” 

“ Fire away, then.” 

Solemnly the boy placed the bugle against his lips and 
took a prodigious breath. Renny lay looking at him, 
amused and compassionate. Poor little devil — a man 
some day, like himself. 

Loudly, triumphantly, the notes of the reveille were 
sounded. Simultaneously they sprang out on to the floor. 
June sunshine blazed into the room. 

Downstairs, Wakefleld said to Finch: “What do you 
suppose? Renny has given me a pony. We’ve just been 
out to the stable to see her. A little pony mare, mind 
you, Finch. There ’ll be colts one day. And thanks again 
for the bugle. Renny and I both got up by it this 
morning. And there’s to be a picnic on the shore, and 
an absolutely ’normous birthday cake.” 

“Humph,” grunted Finch. “I never remember such 
a fuss on any of my birthdays.” 


WAKEFIELD’S BIRTHDAY 


291 


“You have always had a cake, dear,” said Meggie, 
reproachfully. “And don’t forget that nice little engine 
thing, and your bicycle, and your wrist watch.” 

“You don’t expect the family to rejoice because you 
were born, do you?” asked Piers, grinning. 

“ No, I don’t expect anything,” bawled Finch, “ but 
to be badgered.” 

“Poor little boy, he’s jealous.” Piers passed a sun¬ 
burned hand over Finch’s head, stroking downward over 
his long nose, and ending with a playful jolt under the chin. 

Finch’s nerves were raw that morning. He was in the 
midst of the end-of-the-term examinations, and his 
increasing preoccupation with music seemed to render 
him less than ever able to cope with mathematics. He 
knew with dreadful certainty that he was not going to 
pass into- the next form. The fact that his music teacher 
was not only pleased with him but deeply interested in 
him, would not make up for that. Combined with a 
skulking sense of helpless inferiority, he felt the exalted 
arrogance of one whose spirit moves on occasion in the 
free and boundless spaces of art. 

With a kind of bellow, he turned on Piers and struck 
him in the chest. Piers caught his wrists and held them, 
smiling lazily into his wild, distorted face. 

“ See here, Eden,” he called. “ This little lamb is baa¬ 
ing because we celebrate Wake’s birthday with more pep 
than we do his. Is n’t it a crime ? ” 

Eden lounged over, his lips drawn in a faint smile 
from his teeth which held a cigarette, and joined in the 
baiting. 

All morning Finch’s heart raged within him. At 
dinner Meggie and her grandmother both chose to cor¬ 
rect him, to nag at him. He slouched, they said. He 
stuck his elbows out. He bolted his food so that he might 
be ready for the last helping of cherry tart before poor 


292 JALNA 

dear Gran. Furious, he muttered something to himself 
to the effect that she might have it for all he cared, and 
that if it choked her — 

She heard. 

“ Renny! Renny! ” she shouted, turning purple. “ He 
says he hopes it chokes me — chokes me — at my age! 
Flog him, Renny; I won’t stand it. I’ll choke. I 
know I will.” 

She glared wildly at the head of the house, her eyes 
blazing under her shaggy red brows. 

“ Mamma, Mamma,” said Ernest. 

“It’s true,” growled Nicholas. “I heard him say it.” 
Renny had been talking to Alayne, trying not to notice 
the disturbance. Now, in sudden anger, he got up and 
in a stride stood over Finch. 

“Apologize to Gran,” he ordered. 

“Sorry,” muttered Finch, turning white. 

“No mumbling! Properly.” 

“ I’m very sorry, Grandmother.” 

The sight of his hunched shoulders and unprepossess¬ 
ing, sheepish face suddenly threw his elder into one of his 
quick passions. He gave him a sound and ringing cuff. 
Perhaps it was because Finch was not properly balanced 
that day. In any case it always seemed easy to send him 
sprawling. The next second he was in a sobbing heap on 
the floor, and his heavy chair had fallen with a crash. 

Alayne smothered a cry, and stared at her plate. Her 
heart was thudding, but she thought: “ I must hang on 
to myself. I must. He didn’t mean to do it. He will 
be sorry. They drove him to it.” 

Renny sat down. He avoided looking at her. He was 
humiliated at having been drawn into violence before her. 
However, if she thought him a brute, so much the better. 

Finch gathered up himself and his chair, and resumed 
his place at the table with a look of utter dejection. 


WAKEFIELD’S BIRTHDAY 


293 

“Now will you give back chat?” asked Grandmother, 
and she added after another mouthful of tart: “Some¬ 
body kiss me.” 

She kept asking what time the picnic was to be, for she 
was even more excited about it than Wake. She had her 
bonnet and cape on long before the hour when the phaeton 
was to convey her to the shore. She had the picnic ham¬ 
pers ranged beside her chair, and passed the period of 
waiting by a prolonged and bitter discussion with Boney 
as to whether or not he should forage among the 
edibles. 

The picnic party was separated into the same parts as 
the church party, with the difference that Finch rode his 
bicycle instead of walking, and Piers arrived late on 
horseback, for it was a busy season with him. 

As he tethered his mare to an iron stake which had 
been driven into that field before any of them could re¬ 
member, he glanced toward the picnickers to see where 
Pheasant was. He had not had so much of her company 
of late as he would have liked. To the regular spring 
work of his men and himself had been added the setting 
out of a new cherry orchard and the clearing of a piece 
of woodland for cultivation. Piers was as strong and 
wholesome as a vigorous young tree. He was ambitious 
and he was not afraid of work, but it did seem rather 
hard that he had so little time to spare in these lovely 
days of early summer for happy and indolent hours with 
Pheasant. She seldom came out into the fields or or¬ 
chards with him now, as she used to do. She looked 
pale too, and was often petulant, even depressed. He 
wondered if she were possibly going to have a child. He 
must take good care of her, give her a little change of 
some kind. Perhaps he could arrange a motor trip over 
the week-end. The poor girl was probably envious of 
Alayne, who had Eden always at her side. 


294 JALNA 

He saw Pheasant standing on a bluff, her slender fig¬ 
ure outlined against the sky. Her short green dress was 
fluttering about her knees. She looked like a flower 
poised there above the breezy blueness of the lake. 

The phaeton had been drawn down the narrow stony 
road that led to the water’s edge between two bluffs. 
Hodge had loosed the horses, and had led them out into 
the lake to drink. A fire had been lighted on the beach, 
and around it the family, with the exception of Pheasant 
and old Mrs. Whiteoak, were enjoying themselves in their 
own fashions. Wake, with upturned knickers, was pad¬ 
dling along the water’s rim. Renny was throwing sticks 
for his spaniels. Nicholas and Ernest were skipping 
stones. Meg, in a disreputable old sweater, was bent 
over the fire, cherishing the teakettle. Alayne was carry¬ 
ing driftwood. Lady Buckley, very upright on a rug 
spread on the beach, was knitting at something of a bright 
red color. 

Before Piers joined the others on the beach, he went 
to speak to his grandmother, who sat regarding the scene 
from the safety of her seat in the phaeton. 

“ Well, Gran, are you having a good time ? ” 

“ Put your head in so I can kiss you. Ah, there’s the 
boy! Yes, I’m having a very good time. I used to bring 
the children to picnics here more than sixty years ago. 
I remember sitting on this very spot and watching your 
grandfather teach the boys to swim. Nick was a little 
water dog, but Ernest was always screaming that he was 
going down. Oh, we had the times! This was a grand 
country then.” 

“ I suppose so, Gran.” 

“Yes, the wood pigeons were so thick they’d fly in 
clouds that would throw a great shadow. The farm 
boys would trap them. Pretty, pretty things, with eyes 
like jewels. They’d put the pretty eyes out of one, the 


WAKEFIELD’S BIRTHDAY 


295 

brutes! And they’d throw it in a field; and when the 
flock saw it fluttering they thought it was feeding and 
they’d alight in a cloud, and the boys and men would 
shoot them by hundreds.” 

“No such shooting now, Gran.” 

“ Go and see when tea will be ready. I want my tea. 
And, Philip — I mean Piers — keep your eye on Pheas¬ 
ant ; she’s young, aye, she’s young, and her mother was 
bad, and her father a rip. She’s worth watching.” 

“ Look here, Gran, I don’t like your saying such things 
about Pheasant. She’s all right.” 

“I dare say she is — but she’s worth watching. All 
women are, if they ’ve any looks. I want my tea.” 

Piers was smiling at the old lady’s advice as he strode 
along the beach. He was tolerantly amused by her, and 
yet he thought, “There’s a grain of truth in what she 
says. Girls are worth watching. Still, there’s no one 
about but Tom Fennel that she could — Eden, there’s 
Eden; he has nothing to do — might amuse himself — 
poets — immoral fellows. I ’ll spend more time with her. 
I might take her to the Falls for the week-end. There’s 
that new inn there. She’d like that, poor little young ’un.” 

The lake was the color of lapis lazuli. Some gulls, 
disturbed by the barking of the dogs, wheeled, petulantly 
crying, above its brightness. Beyond them a coaling 
schooner, with blackened sails, moved imperceptibly, and 
a steamer bound for Niagara trailed its faint streamer of 
smoke. Little sailboats were languishing in some yacht- 
club race. 

Piers went up to Renny, whose eyes were fixed on 
Flossie swimming after a stick, while Merlin, having re¬ 
trieved his, barked himself off his feet in agonized de¬ 
mand for another opportunity to exhibit his powers. As 
Piers approached, the spaniel shook himself vigorously, 
sending a drenching shower over the brothers’ legs. 


296 JALNA 

“ She has got it,” said Renny, his eyes still on Floss, 
and he called out to her, “ Good girl! ” 

“Damn Merlin!” said Piers. “He’s soaked my 
trouser legs.” 

“All in white, eh?” observed Renny, looking him over. 

“You didn’t expect me to come in overalls, did you? 
Have we time for a swim before tea?” 

Renny bent and put his hand in the water. “ It’s not 
very cold. Suppose we do. Tea can wait.” 

“ Where is Eden ? ” asked Piers, casting his eyes over 
the party. 

“He was up on the bluff with Pheasant a bit ago.” 
Looking up, they saw his fair head rising just above the 
grass where he lay stretched at Pheasant’s feet. 

“I won’t have him hanging about her,” burst out 
Piers. 

“Tell him so, then,” said Renny, curtly. 

“By the Lord, I will! I’ll tell him so he’ll not for¬ 
get.” His mind suddenly was a seething sea of suspi¬ 
cions. “ Why, even Gran thinks there’s something 
wrong. She was warning me just now.” 

“No need to get in a stew,” said Renny, throwing the 
stick for Merlin, who leaped to the water with a bark of 
joy, while his place was immediately taken by a dripping, 
importunate Flossie. “ Eden and Alayne will be leaving 
before the first of July. Evans has a job for him then.” 

“What a loafer he is!” 

“You didn’t expect him to work with a broken leg, 
did you? Don’t grouse about anything now: this is 
Wake’s birthday party. Come on and have our swim.” 
He shouted to Wakefield: “Wake, should you like to go 
in for a swim ? ” 

Wakefield came galloping through the wavelets. 

“Should I? Oh, splendid! What if I had the pony 
here ? She’d swim out with me, I ’ll bet.” 


WAKEFIELD’S BIRTHDAY 297 

“Eden!” called Renny. “We’re going in swimming. 
Better come.” 

They stared up at him as he scrambled to his feet and 
began to descend the steep path down the side of the bluff. 
He still limped from the effects of his fall. 

“Won’t it be pretty cold?” he asked. 

“We might have Meggie boil a kettle of water to warm 
a spot for you,” said Piers. 

“Where’s Finch?” asked Renny. “Finch will want 
to come.” 

Wakefield answered: “He’s in the little cove already, 
lying on the sand.” 

The four made toward the cove. 

“Don’t let Uncle Ernest come,” said Eden. “He’s 
sure to hurt me.” 

“ Uncle Ernest! ” shouted Renny. “ Eden says you ’re 
not to come. You’re too rough.” 

“Eden, Eden,” cried Ernest, but with a certain pride, 
“ I wish you would let me forget that.” 

Grandmother’s voice came from the phaeton, sharp 
with the anguish of hunger: “When are we going to 
have tea ? I told Piers to fetch me tea! ” 

“I am bringing you a molasses scone to stay you, 
Mamma,” said Augusta. She was carefully making her 
way across the shingle, the buttered scone in her hand. 

When the four brothers reached the little willow- 
fringed cove, they found Finch lying face downward, his 
head propped on his arms. “ Still sulking? ” asked Piers. 
“ Did you know, Renny, that the poor youth is obsessed 
by the idea that we make more of Wake’s birthday than 
his ? Is n’t it heart-rending, Wake ? ” 

Wakefield, smiling and self-conscious, stared down at 
Finch’s prostrate form. 

“If I get this leg chilled,” observed Eden, “I might 
have rheumatism.” 


2 9 8 JALNA 

“ You won’t get chilled if I am with you,” said Piers, 
pulling off his coat. 

When the others had plunged into the lake, and Wake 
was already screaming with delight and terror at Piers’s 
hands, Renny returned to Finch and said with a fatherly 
air: “ Better come in, Finch; it’ll do you good. You’ve 
been studying too much.” 

“ No. I d’ want to,” mumbled the boy against his arm. 

“ Don’t be a duffer,” said Renny, poking him with his 
bare foot. “The more Piers sees he can rattle you the 
more he ’ll do it.” 

“T is n’t only that.” 

“ Well, look here. It was too bad I gave you that cuff 
before the others. But you were too damned cheeky. 
Come along and forget it.” 

Finch rolled over, disclosing a distorted red face. 

“Is there no place I can be let alone?” he bawled. 
“ Have I got to go to the end of the world to be let alone? 
All I ask is to be let alone, in peace here, and you all 
come prodding me up! ” 

“Stay alone, then, you little idiot!” Renny tossed 
away the cigarette he was smoking and strode to the 
water’s edge. 

All very well, Finch thought, for a lordly being like 
Renny, safe, always sure of himself, unmenaced by dread¬ 
ful thoughts and bewitchment, of whom even Piers stood 
in some awe. With his head propped on his hand, he 
watched his brothers swimming, splashing, diving, the 
sunshine glistening on their white shoulders. As a crea¬ 
ture apart, he watched them, with the idea in his mind 
that there was a conspiracy against him, that each mem¬ 
ber of the family played a different part against him, 
talking him over among themselves, sneering and laugh¬ 
ing at him; but, in spite of himself, a slow smile of 
pleasure in their glistening grace, their agility, crept over 


WAKEFIELD’S BIRTHDAY 


299 


his features. Their robust shouts were not unmusical. 
And the shine of their sleek heads, blond and russet and 
black, pleased his eyes. He saw that Piers was rough 
with Eden, and he was glad. He wished they would fight, 
half kill each other, while he reclined on the sand looking 
on. 

Eden came limping out of the water. 

“Are there any towels?” he asked. “Run and ask 
Meg for towels, like a good fellow, Finch.” 

Oh, yes! He was a good fellow when there was an 
errand to be run. But he hurried across the shingle to 
his sister. 

“Towels? Yes, here they are. This big red-and- 
white one for Renny, mind! And the two smaller ones 
for Eden and Piers. And send Wake to me. I must 
give him a good rubbing so he shan’t take a chill.” 

A sudden mood of savage playfulness came over Finch. 
Snatching the towels, he went, with a wild fling of his 
body, back toward the cove. There he hurled the twisted 
bundle at his brothers. 

“ There are your old towels! ” he yelled; and as he 
crashed among the brushwood beyond the willows, he 
called back, “You’re to go to Meggie, young Wake, and 
get walloped! ” 

Alayne had joined Pheasant on the bluff, and presently 
Renny too mounted the path, his damp russet head ap¬ 
pearing first above the brink, like the ruffled crest of 
some bird of prey. He threw himself on the short 
thick clover that carpeted the bluff, and lighted his 
pipe. 

“It seems rather hard,” said Pheasant in her childish 
voice, “that Alayne and I could not have bathed. By 
the noise you made we could imagine the fun you were 
having.” 

“ It was too cold for girls.” 


300 JALNA 

“ It is a scientific fact,” she said, sententiously, “ that 
our sex can endure more cold than yours.” 

“We had no bathing suits.” 

“We should have all brought bathing suits and made a 
proper party of it. You have no idea how stupid it is to 
sit twiddling one’s thumbs while you males are enjoying 
yourselves. ‘Men must work, and women must weep’ 
— that is the Whiteoak motto. Only you translate it 
into: ‘Men must play, and women — ’ Do help me out 
with something really biting, Alayne.” 

Alayne answered only with a shrug. Renny continued 
to stare out across the moving brilliance of the water, 
puffing at his pipe. With a sort of taciturn tyranny he 
overrode the younger girl’s desire for chatter and chaff. 
She too fell silent, plucking at the grass, and then, after 
a sidelong glance at the other two, she rose and began 
slowly to descend the path. 

“Why are you going, Pheasant?” called Alayne 
sharply. 

“ I think someone should help Meggie to lay the cloth.” 

“Very well. If I can be of use, please call me.” 

Now a shudder of excitement ran through her. It was 
the first time in weeks that she had been alone with Renny. 
She almost wished that she had followed Pheasant. 

For some time he had avoided her. Their rides, which 
had been interrupted by the heavy snowfalls of January 
and the illness of Eden, had not been resumed. Although 
they lived in the house together, they-were separated by 
a wall, a relentless wall of ice, through which each was 
visible to the other, though distorted by its glacial diffu¬ 
sions. Now on the cliff, in the sunshine, the wall seemed 
likely to melt, and with it the barrier of her intellectual 
self-control. If she could only know what he was feel¬ 
ing! His very silence was to her a tentative embrace. 

Like incense, the sweetness of the wood smoke rose 


WAKEFIELD’S BIRTHDAY 


3 01 

from the beach. Wake’s little naked figure was darting 
here and there like a sandpiper. 

She studied Renny’s profile, the carved nose, the lips 
gripping the pipe, the damp hair plastered against the 
temples. It was so immobile that a heavy depression be¬ 
gan to drown her mood of passionate excitement. Look¬ 
ing at him, remembering Eden, she began to feel that 
she had had enough of Whiteoaks. She had bruised her 
soul against their wanton egotism. This Renny whom 
she loved was as remote, as self-sufficient, as that rock 
out yonder. His look of passionate immobility might be 
the mask of nothing more than a brooding desire to ac¬ 
quire some mettlesome piece of horseflesh for his stalls. 
Yet how could that be, and she have that feeling that 
his very silence was an embrace! Two shadowy arms 
seemed to spring from his shoulders toward her, crush¬ 
ing her to him, kissing her with the passion of his kisses 
in the orchard with, added to them, all the hunger of these 
months of self-restraint. 

His fleshly arms had not moved. One lay across his 
thigh, the other slanted toward his pipe, the bowl of 
which lay in his palm. 

He took his pipe from his lips, and spoke in a low, 
husky voice. His words overwhelmed her. She was 
like a mariner who, fearing certain shoals, watching with 
both dread and desire for the light that warned of their 
nearness, is suddenly blinded by that light full in the 
eyes. Excitement, resentment, depression, all left her. 
She was conscious only of his love. 

“ I love you,” he said, “ and I am in hell because I love 
you. And there is no way out.” 

The magical experience of sitting on the cliff with 
Renny, hearing these words from his mouth, in his re¬ 
strained voice, filled Alayne with a sense of reckless sur¬ 
render rather than tragic renunciation. Like a crop from 


302 JALNA 

virgin soil, this first profound love gushed upward from 
her being to embrace the hot sun of his passion. 

With Renny it was very different. A man who had 
loved women both casually and licentiously, who could 
not speak their language, who had thought to have and 
craved to have no other sort of feelings toward them, 
he felt himself betrayed by this new and subtle passion 
that went deeper than mere possession, that could not be 
gratified and forgotten. In his eyes was something of 
the bewilderment of the animal that finds itself wounded, 
unable to exercise the faculties which had been its chief 
delight. Love, which had hitherto been to him as a drink 
of fresh water, now tasted of the bitter salt of renun¬ 
ciation. 

He muttered again: “ There is no way out.” 

She said, almost in a whisper: “No, I suppose there is 
nothing to be done.” 

It was as though a traveler, pointing to the rising 
moon, had said to another: “ There is no moon.” 

He caught that strange denial of her words in her 
tone. Looking into her face, he perceived the warmth 
and pathos there. He exclaimed, with a groan: “ I would 
cut everything—take you away, if only—he were not 
my brother!” 

In an odd, choking voice that seemed to come from a 
long way off, she reminded him: “Your half brother.” 

“ I never think of that,” he said, coldly. His attach¬ 
ment to his brothers was so tenacious that it always had 
annoyed him to hear them spoken of as half brothers. 

After a moment of silence that seemed made manifest 
by a veil of wood smoke that rose and hung over them 
for a space, she said, with a tremor in her voice: “I will 
do whatever you tell me to.” 

“I believe you would,” he answered. With sudden 
realization, he knew that her life was to her as important 


WAKEFIELD’S BIRTHDAY 


303 

as his to himself, and yet she was putting it into his 
hands with heroic selflessness. 

They became aware that those on the beach were calling 
to them and, looking down, they saw that they were beck¬ 
oning. The cloth was laid; already Nicholas, with the 
help of Piers, was letting himself down heavily into the 
unaccustomed posture of sitting on the ground. 

“Tea is ready. Come down! Come!” echoed the 
voices. 

The two rose mechanically, like two untroubled pup¬ 
pets, under the blue immensity of heaven, and turned to¬ 
ward the path. 

“Your heels are too high for such a rough place,” he 
said. “ Let me take your hand.” 

She placed her hand in his, and he held it in his thin, 
muscular grasp till they reached the shingle. 


XXIII 

JUNE NIGHT AT JALNA 

Two members of the picnic party did not return with the 
others to Jalna. Piers went through the ravine to 
Vaughanlands, and with Maurice Vaughan drove to 
Stead to a meeting of fruit growers. Finch too went to 
Vaughanlands, but he cycled along the country road and 
entered by the front road into the house. He knew 
Maurice was going out with Piers, and since the house¬ 
keeper was almost totally deaf, he might make music 
with all the wild fervor that he chose, with no one but 
himself to hear. 

All day Finch had been straining toward the hour. 
Yet he knew that he should at this moment be in his 
room at home “swatting” for the physics exam to¬ 
morrow. He should not have gone to the picnic at all, 
though he had compromised by taking a textbook with 
him to study at odd moments. In reality, he had not 
read one word of it. The book had been nothing more 
than a mask, behind which he had hidden for a while his 
angry, sullen face. When he had fastened it in its strap 
to the handlebar of his bicycle, he had muttered some¬ 
thing about going to study with George Fennel. He had 
lied, and he did not care. This evening he must be free. 
His soul must stretch its wings in the spaces of the night. 
Music would set him free. 

This new freedom, which music had the power to cast 
over him like a bright armor, was most of all freedom 
from his own menacing thoughts and, better still, free¬ 
dom from God. God no longer frightened him, no 
longer pursued him in his loneliness, following him even 


JUNE NIGHT AT JALNA 305 

to his bed with face that changed from thunderous dark¬ 
ness to fiery whiteness, from old to young. On evenings 
when music had made him brave and free he marched 
home through the ravine, singing as he marched, and no 
more afraid of God than of the whippoorwills that called 
to their loves among the trees, or of the quivering stars. 

Sometimes the thought of being loved by God rather 
than pursued by Him, filled him with ecstasy, blinded him 
with tears. Often, and more often as the months flew 
on, he did not believe in God at all. God was nothing 
but a dragon of childhood, Fear personified, of which a 
Scotch nurse in tiny boyhood had sown the seed. Yet 
he did not want to lose this fear of God entirely, for it 
had in it the power of submerging the more terrible fear 
of himself. Once, in a strange flash of inwardness, he 
had thought that perhaps God and he were both afraid, 
each afraid of his own reflection as seen in the other’s 
eyes. Perhaps, even, God and he were one — 

In the forsaken house he sat very upright on the piano 
stool, only his hands moving firmly and with spirit over 
the keys. The piece he played was no more pretentious 
than that which any boy of talent might execute after an 
equal number of lessons. Nevertheless, there was some¬ 
thing special in Finch’s playing, in the way his sheepish 
air gave place to confidence when he sat before the piano, 
in the firm dexterity of his beautiful hands, — such a 
contrast to his unprepossessing face, — which kept him in 
his teacher’s mind long after the lesson was over. More 
than once the teacher had said to a colleague: “I have 
one pupil, a boy named Whiteoak, who isn’t like any of 
the others. He has genius of some kind, I am sure, but 
whether music is its natural expression, or whether it is 
just a temporary outlet for something else, I can’t yet 
make out. He’s a queer, shy boy.” 

Finch sat playing now, neither shy nor queer. The 


3 o6 JALNA 

room was dark except for the moonlight that serenely 
fell across his hands on the keys. Through the open 
window the rich sweet scents of this June night poured 
in a changeful stream, now the odor of the cool fresh 
earth, now the heavy scent of certain yellow lilies that 
grew beneath the window, now the mixed aroma of wild 
flowers, last year’s leaves, and rich mould, that poured up 
from the ravine. The breeze blew in, now warm and 
gentle as love’s first kiss, now with a chill borne from 
some sequestered place not yet warmed by the summer 
sun. 

All these scents and warmths and coolnesses Finch 
wove into his music. He had a strange sensation that 
night that many years had fled by with averted faces 
since the hour of the picnic. That all those he knew, 
indeed all the people of the world, were dead. That he 
alone lived, and was creating by his will, his music, the 
June night of a new world. 

He felt the wondrous elation of creating, and at the 
same time a great sadness, for he knew that the world he 
was creating could not last; that it was no more than the 
shadow of a shadow; that the dancing streams, the flying 
petals, the swift winds that were born beneath his fingers 
would dry and wither and fall as the music sank to 
silence. 

A clock on the chimneypiece struck ten in a thin far¬ 
away tone. Finch remembered to-morrow’s examina¬ 
tion. He must go home and study for a couple of hours, 
try to get something into that brain of his besides music. 
But, at any rate, his brain felt clearer for the music. He 
felt wonderfully clear-headed to-night. All sights and 
sounds seemed to him magnified, intensified. With luck 
he might in the next two hours absorb the very problems 
upon which the questions of the examination would be 
based. The worst was that, as he had told Meggie be 


JUNE NIGHT AT JALNA 307 

was going to study with George Fennel, he must go a 
long piece out of his way in order that he might arrive 
from the direction of the rectory. The night was so 
mild that some of the family were almost certain to be 
about, and if he appeared out of the ravine, it would at 
once be suspected that he had been at Vaughanlands. 

Just one piece more! He could not tear himself away 
yet. He played on, losing himself in the delight of that 
growing sympathy between his hands and the keyboard. 
Then he gently closed the piano and went out on to the 
verandah, shutting the door behind him. 

A puff of warm air met him, as though it had been 
deliberately blown on him to entice him into the woods, 
to keep him there till he forgot all the things he had so 
painfully learned at school, and knew only the mathe¬ 
matics of the seasons, and the language of the trees. He 
mounted his wheel and rode across the lawn. 

The basin where the house stood was flooded by moon¬ 
light, like a shallow bowl with golden wine. The air was 
full of whisperings and stirrings. The very grass across 
which he glided seemed a magic carpet. 

He flew along the road, faster and faster, through the 
little hamlet, past the rectory (there was a light up in 
George's attic room, and poor George swatting away!). 
What if he went in and spent the night with George? 
He could telephone to Jalna. 

No, he wanted to be by himself. George was too solid, 
too prosaic for him to-night. He could see his slow 
smile, hear his “ Whatever puts such fool ideas into your 
head, Finch?" 

Down the lane into the old woods of Jalna. The black 
pine trees blacker than the blackest night. How did they 
manage it? No darkness could obliterate them. How 
lovely the little birch wood must look in the moonlight! 
All the silver birches in their own fair communion in the 


308 JALNA 

midst of the black pines! If he left his wheel here, he 
might go to the birch wood and see it in this first silvery- 
night of June; take a picture of it back to his room in his 
mind’s eye. 

His “mind’s eye.” What a singular phrase! He 
thought of his mind’s eye—round, glowing, rapturous 
and frightened by turns. 

The mind has a thousand eyes, 

And the heart but one; 

Yet the light of a whole life dies 
When love is done. 

It must have been the eye of his heart which he had 
been imagining — that flaming, rapturous, terrified eye. 
“When love is done — ” Love had not begun for him. 
He thought it never would. Not that kind of love. He 
was not at all sure that he wanted it. 

He was running lightly along the woodland path that 
wound among the pines. There were before him five 
slender young birches, sprung from the trunk of a fallen 
and decayed pine, like five fabled virgins from the torso 
of a slain giant. Beyond them the birch wood lay in the 
mystery of moonlight, the delicate, drooping boughs 
seemed to float above the immaculate boles. 

This was the spot where one morning he had seen 
Renny standing with a strange woman in his arms. The 
place had ever since been haunted by that vision. He 
was therefore scarcely surprised when he heard low 
voices as he reached the outer fringe of trees. Was Renny 
up to his love games again ? He halted among the young 
ferns and listened. He peered through the strange misty 
radiance that seemed to be distilled from the trunks and 
foliage of the birches themselves rather than to fall from 
above, and tried to see who were the two who had sought 
this hidden spot. Every nerve in his body was quivering, 
taut as the strings of a musical instrument. 


JUNE NIGHT AT JALNA 309 

At first he could make out nothing but the dew-wet 
mistiness of light and shade, the strange lustre that hung 
above a patch of greensward. All about him the air was 
full of mysterious rustlings and sighings, as though every 
leaf and blade and fern frond were sentient. Then the 
murmur of voices, the sound of long, passionate kisses 
drew his gaze toward a particular spot, sheltered by some 
hazel bushes. Scarcely breathing, he crept closer. He 
heard a low laugh, and then the voice that laughed said, 
“ Pheasant, Pheasant, Pheasant,” over and over again. 

It was Eden’s voice. 

Then rushing breathless words from Pheasant, and 
then a deep sigh, and again the sound of kisses. 

Oh, they were wicked! He could have rushed in on 
them in his rage, and slain them. It would have been 
right and just. They had betrayed Piers, his beloved 
brother, his hero! In imagination he crashed in on them 
through the hazel bushes, trampling the ferns, and struck 
them again and again till they screamed for pity; but 
he had no pity; he beat them down as they clung about 
his knees till their blood soaked the greensward and the 
glade reverberated with their cries — 

He was dazed. He drew his hand across his eyes. 
Then he moved closer toward them through the hazels, 
not seeing where he was going, dizzy. Her voice gasped: 
“What was that?” 

He stopped. 

There was silence, except that the beating of his heart 
filled the universe. 

“What was that?” 

“ Nothing but a rabbit or a squirrel.” 

Finch dropped to his knees. With great caution he 
turned and began to creep away from them. He crept 
till he reached the path into the pine wood, then he got to 
his feet and began to run. He sped along the needle- 


3 io JALNA 

strewn path with great strides like a hunted deer. His 
mouth was open, his breath coming in sobbing gasps. 

When he reached the place where he had left his wheel, 
he did not stop. Nothing mechanical could move with 
the speed of his swift, avenging feet. He ran down the 
lame, waving his arms; he flew across the pasture, past 
a group of sleeping cattle; missing the bridge, he waded 
across the stream through the thick, clinging water cress; 
slipped, and sprawled on the bank into a great golden 
splash of kingcups; and pressed on toward the stables. 

Piers had just driven into the yard when he arrived. 
Finch ran up in front of the car, his wild white face and 
disheveled hair startling in the glare of the lamps. His 
hand was on his side, where a pain like a knife was 
stabbing him. 

“What's the matter?" cried Piers, springing out of 
the car. 

Finch pointed in the direction whence he had come. 

“They’re there," he said, thickly. “Back there — in 
the woods! ” 

“ What the devil is the matter with you ? " asked Piers, 
coming around to him. “Have you had a fright?" 

Finch caught his brother by the arm and repeated: 
“In the wood — making love — both of them — kissing 
— making love — " 

“Who? Tell me whom you mean. I don’t know 
what you’re talking about." Piers was impatient, yet, 
in spite of himself, he was excited by the boy’s wild 
words. 

“ Eden, the traitor! ’’ cried Finch, his voice breaking 
into a scream. “ He’s got Pheasant in the wood there — 
Pheasant. They’re wicked, I tell you — false as hell!" 

Piers’s hand was as a vise on his arm. 

“What did you see?" 

“Nothing—nothing—but behind the hazel bushes 


JUNE NIGHT AT JALNA 311 

I heard them whispering — kissing — oh, I know. I 
wasn’t born yesterday. Why did they go so far away? 
She wouldn’t have let him kiss her like that unless — ” 

Piers gave him a shake. “ Shut up. No more of that. 
Now listen to me. You are to go straight to your room, 
Finch. You are to say nothing of this to anyone. I am 
going to find them.” His full, healthy face was ghastly, 
his eyes blazed. “I’ll kill them both — if what you say 
is so, Finch. Now go to the house.” 

He asked then, in a tone almost matter-of-fact, just 
where Finch had seen them, why he had gone there him¬ 
self. Finch incoherently repeated everything. Some¬ 
thing of their excitement must have been transmitted to 
the animals, for the dogs began to bark and a loud 
whinny came from the stables. The moon was sinking, 
and a deathlike pallor lay across the scene. Piers turned 
away, cursing as he stumbled over the tongue of a cart. 
A mist was rising above the paddock, and he ran into this 
obscurity, disappearing from Finch’s eyes, as though 
swallowed up by some sinister force of nature. 

Finch stared after him till he was lost to view, then 
stumbled toward the house. He felt suddenly tired and 
weak, and yet he could not go to the house as he had been 
bid. He saw a light in Alayne’s room. Poor Alayne! 
He shuddered as he thought of what Piers would do to 
Eden, and yet he had done right to tell this terrible thing. 
He could not have hidden such evildoing in his heart, 
connived at their further sin. Still it was possible that 
his own evil imagination had magnified their act into 
heinousness. Perhaps even they were no worse than 
others. He had heard something about the loose morals 
of the younger generation. Well, Pheasant was only 
eighteen, Eden twenty-four; they were young, and per¬ 
haps no worse than others. What about Alayne her¬ 
self ? Was she good ? Those long rides with Renny, her 


312 JALNA 

moving into a room by herself, away from Eden — Finch 
had heard a whispered reference to that between Meg 
and Aunt Augusta. Would he ever know right from 
wrong? Would he ever know peace? All he knew was 
that he was alone—very lonely, afraid — afraid now 
for Eden and Pheasant, while a few minutes ago he had 
thought only of crushing them in the midst of their 
wickedness. 

He crossed the lawn and followed the path into the 
ravine. The stream, narrower here than where he had 
waded through it crossing the meadows, ran swiftly, 
still brimming from heavy spring rains. Luxuriant 
bushes, covered by starry white flowers, filled the night 
with their fragrance. 

Renny was sitting on the strong wooden handrail of 
the little bridge, smoking and staring dreamily down into 
the water. Finch would have turned away, but Renny 
had heard his step on the bridge. 

“That you, Piers?” he asked. 

“No, it’s me—Finch.” 

“Have you just come back from the rectory?” 

“No, Renny, I’ve been — practising.” 

He expected a rebuke, but none came. Renny scarcely 
seemed to hear him, seemed hardly aware of his presence. 
Finch moved closer, with a dim idea of absorbing some 
of his strength by mere proximity. In the shadow of 
that unique magnificence he did not feel quite so fright¬ 
ened. He wished that he might touch Renny, hold on to 
his fingers, even his tweed sleeve, as he had when he was 
a little fellow. 

Renny pointed down into the water. “Look there,” 
he said. 

Looking, Finch saw a glossy wet back gliding across 
the silver shimmer of the stream. It was a large water 
rat out on some noctural business of its own. They 


JUNE NIGHT AT JALNA 313 

watched it till it reached the opposite bank, where, instead 
of climbing out as they had expected, it nosed among the 
sedges for a moment and then moved into the stream 
again, slowly passing under the bridge. Renny went to 
the other side and peered after it. 

“ Here he comes,” he murmured. 

“ Wonder what he’s after,” said Finch, but he did not 
move. Down there in the dark brightness of the water 
he saw a picture — Eden lying dead, with Alayne wring¬ 
ing her hands above his body; and as the wavelets ob¬ 
literated it, another took its place — Piers, purple-faced, 
struggling, kicking on a gallows — Icy sweat poured 
down Finch’s face. He put out a hand gropingly, and 
staggered from the bridge and up the path. On the 
ridge above the ravine he hesitated. Should he go back 
and pour out the whole terrible tale to Renny? Perhaps 
it was not too late, if they ran all the way, to prevent a 
disaster. 

He stood, gnawing at his knuckle distractedly, the 
clinging wetness of his trouser legs making him shiver 
from head to foot. He seemed incapable of movement 
or even thought now; but suddenly he was stirred to both 
by the sound of Eden’s laugh, near at hand, on the lawn. 
Then Pheasant’s voice came, speaking in a natural, un¬ 
hurried tone. Piers had somehow missed them, and 
while he was crashing through the woods in pursuit, they 
were strolling about the lawn, as though they had been 
there all the while. 

Finch moved out from the darkness and stood before 
them. Eden had just struck a match and was holding it 
to a cigarette. The flame danced in his eyes, which 
looked very large and bright, and gave an ironical twist 
to the faint smile that so often hovered about his lips. 

Pheasant uttered an exclamation that was almost a cry. 

“ Don’t go in the house,” said Finch, heavily. “ I mean 


3 i4 JALNA 

— go away. I ’ve told Piers about you. I heard you in 
the birch wood, and I ran back, and told Piers — ” 

Eden held the still flaring match near Finch’s face, as 
though it were some supernatural ray by which he could 
look into his very soul. 

“Yes?” he said, steadily. “Go on.” 

“He’s after you. He — he looked terrible. You’d 
better go away.” 

Pheasant made a little moaning sound like a rabbit 
caught in a trap. Eden dropped the match. 

“ What a worm you are, brother Finch! ” he said. “ I 
don’t know where we Whiteoaks ever got you.” He 
turned to Pheasant. “Don’t be frightened, darling. I 
will take care of you.” 

“Oh, oh!” she cried. “What shall we do?” 

“Hush.” 

Finch said: “He’ll be back any minute,” and turned 
away. 

He could not go into that house with its peacefully 
shining lights, where the others were still talking perhaps 
of the picnic, all unwitting of the thunderbolt that hung 
over them. He skulked around the house, through the 
kitchen garden, through the orchard, and out on the road 
that led to the churchyard. 

The church steeple, rising from among the tapering 
cedars, pointed more sharply than they toward the sky. 
The church had gathered to itself the darkest shadows of 
tree and tomb, and drawn them like a cloak about its 
walls. The dead, lying beneath the dewy young grass, 
seemed to Finch to be watching him, as he climbed the 
steep steps from the road, out of hollow eye sockets in 
which no longer was boldness, or terror, or lust, but only 
resigned decay. They no longer were afraid of God. 
All was over. They had nothing to do but lie there till 
their bones were light as the pollen of a flower. 


JUNE NIGHT AT JALNA 315 

Ah, but he was afraid of God! Fear was his flesh, 
his marrow, his very essence. Why had the moon sunk 
and left him in this blackness alone ? What had he done ? 
He had ruined the lives of Piers and Eden and Pheasant 
and Alayne. Were Eden and Pheasant sinful? “Sin?” 
What a mad word! Could there be sin ? All the moulder¬ 
ing bones under this grass—their sins were no more 
than the odors of spring growth, warm earth, sticky leaf- 
bud, blessed rain — sweetness. But there was that say¬ 
ing: “To the third and fourth generation.” Perhaps he 
was suffering to-night for the heady sin of some far-off 
Whiteoak. Perhaps that baby sister, over whose grave 
he stood, had given up her little ghost because of some 
shadowy bygone sin. He pictured her lying there, not 
horrible, not decayed, but fair and tender as the bud 
of an April flower, with little hands held out to him. 

Hands held out to him— Oh, beautiful thought! 
That was what his lonely spirit yearned for — the com¬ 
fort of outstretched hands. A sob of self-pity shook 
him; tears rushed to his eyes and poured down his cheeks. 
He cast himself on the ground among the graves, and lay 
there, his face against the grass. All the accumulated 
experience of the dead beneath him, passing into his 
body, became one with him. He lay there inert, ex¬ 
hausted, drinking in at every pore the bitter sweetness 
of the past. Hands stretched out to him, the hands of 
soldiers, gardeners, young mothers, infants, and One far 
different from the others. Hands from which emanated 
a strange white glow, not open-palmed, but holding 
something toward him — “the living Bread” — Christ’s 
hands. 

He knelt among the mounds and held up his own 
hands, curved like petals, to receive. His thin boy’s body 
was tom by sobs as a sapling in a hailstorm. He put 
his hands to his mouth — he had received the Bread— 


316 JALNA 

he felt the sacred fire of it burn through his veins — 
scorch his soul — Christ in him. 

Overcome, he sank beside his mother’s grave and 
threw his arm about it. Little white daisies shone out 
of the dark grass like tender, beaming eyes. He pressed 
closer, closer, drawing up his knees, curling his body like 
a little child’s, thrusting his breast against the grave, and 
cried: “ Mother, oh mother — speak to me! I am Finch, 
your boy.” 


XXIV 

THE FLIGHT OF PHEASANT 

Maurice Vaughan was sitting alone in his dining room. 
When he and Piers had returned from Stead, he had 
brought the young fellow into the house for a drink and 
some cold viands which he had got himself from the 
pantry. If he had had his way, Piers would still be 
there, smoking, drinking, and talking with ever less 
clarity about fertilizers and spraying and the breeding 
of horses. But Piers had refused to stay for long. He 
had to rise early, and for some reason he could not get 
Pheasant out of his head. His thoughts kept flying back 
to her, to her little white face, her brown cropped hair. 
Her thin eager hands seemed to tug at his sleeve, draw¬ 
ing him home. He had been abstracted all the evening. 

However, Maurice had scarcely noticed this. All he 
craved was company, the warmth of a human presence 
to pierce the chill loneliness of the house. When Piers 
was gone, he sat on and on, slowly, heavily drinking 
without enjoyment, slowly, heavily thinking in the same 
numbing circle which his mind, like the glassy-eyed steed 
of a roundabout, had traversed for twenty years. 

He thought of Meg, tender and sedate, a noble young 
girl, as she was when they had become engaged. He 
thought of his old parents, their fond joy in him, their 
ambition, with which he was in accord, that he should 
become one of the most brilliant and influential men in 
the country. He pictured his marriage with Meggie, 
their life together, their family of lovely girls and boys. 
There were six of these children of his fancy. He had 
named them all — the boys with family names, the girls 


318 JALNA 

with romantic names from the poets he had once ad¬ 
mired. From the eldest to the youngest, he knew every 
line of the six young faces and had a right to know them, 
for he had shaped them out of the shadows to satisfy the 
hunger of his heart. For them he had a love he had never 
given to Pheasant. 

He thought of that affair with her mother, of their 
meetings in the twilight, of her clutching his knees and 
begging him to marry her when she found she was with 
child, of his tearing himself away. Then the basket with 
the baby, the note, — here a feeling approaching nausea 
made him shift in his chair, — the family consternation, 
the family conclaves, Meg’s throwing him over, his par¬ 
ents’ death, financial distresses, the end of ambition. And 
so on through the whole gloomy business of his life, in 
which the brightest spot was the war, where he had 
been able for a time to forget the past and ignore the 
future. 

As he completed the circle, the room reeled a little with 
him; his chin sank on his breast, and the electric light 
brought out the increasing whiteness of the patches on 
his temples. He did not sleep, but consciousness was 
suspended. The sound of someone softly entering the 
room did not rouse him. With his heavy underlip 
dropped, his eyes staring into space, he sat motionless as 
a sullen rock buried in the heaviness of the sea. 

Pheasant felt a pang of pity as she saw him sitting 
alone in the cold, unshaded, electric light. “He looks 
frightfully blue,” she thought, “and he’s getting round- 
shouldered.” Then her mind flew back to her own 
tragic situation, and she went to him and touched him on 
the arm. 

“ Maurice.” 

He started, and then, seeing who it was, he said in a 
surly tone: “Well, what do you want?” 


THE FLIGHT OF PHEASANT 319 

“ Oh, Maurice,” she breathed, “ be kind to me! Don't 
let Piers into the house. I’m afraid he’ll kill me.” 

He stared stupidly at her, and then growled: “Well, 
it’s what you deserve, isn’t it?” 

“Yes, yes, I deserve it! But how did you know? 
Have you seen anyone ? ” 

He considered a moment, staring at the decanter on 
the table. 

“Yes, Piers was here.” 

“ Piers here ? Oh, he was searching for me! ” She 
wrung her hands frantically. “Oh, Maurice, please, 
please don’t let him in again! I’ve been wandering about 
in the dark for hours, and at last I thought I’d come to 
you, for after all I am your child. You’ve a right to 
protect me, no matter what I’ve done.” 

He roused himself to say, “What have you done?” 

“ Did n’t Piers tell you anything ? ” 

“No.” 

“But he was searching for me?” 

“No, he wasn’t.” 

“ Then how did you know something was wrong ? ” 

“I didn’t.” 

“ But you said I deserve to be killed.” 

“ Well, don’t you ? ” he demanded, with drunken rail¬ 
lery. 

“Maurice, you’re drunk. Oh, whatever shall I do?” 
She threw herself on his knees, clasping his neck. “Try 
to understand! Say that you’ll not let Piers kill me.” 
She broke into pitiful wails. “Oh, Maurice, I’ve had to 
run away from Piers, and I love him so! ” 

“ He was here a bit ago,” said Vaughan, staring around 
as though he expected to find him in a corner. Then, 
noticing her head against his shoulder, he laid his hand 
on it in a rough caress, as a man might stroke a 
dog. 


320 JALNA 

“ Don’t cry, youngster. I ’ll take care of you. Glad to 
have you back. Damned lonely.” 

She caught his hand and pressed a dozen wild kisses 
on it. 

“ Oh, Maurice, how good you are! How good to me! 
And how good Piers was to me — and I didn’t deserve 
it. Hanging is too good for me! ” And she added, 
melodramatically: “’Twere better I had never been 
born! ” 

She rose then and wiped her eyes. She was a pitiful 
little figure. Her clothes were tom from running dis¬ 
tractedly through a blackberry plantation. Her hands 
and even her pale face were bleeding from scratches. 
She had lost a shoe, and the stockinged foot was wet 
with mud. 

“Yes, ’twere,” he repeated, agreeably. 

With a certain pathetic dignity, she turned toward the 
door. 

“Will it be all the same to you, Maurice, if I go to my 
room ? ” 

“Same to me — wherever you go — absolutely.” 

How different this hall, she thought, as she dragged 
herself up the bare stairs, from the luxurious hall at 
Jalna, with its thickly carpeted stairs, its dark red rugs, 
its stained-glass window. The great moose head which 
had been her especial terror in childhood now glared 
down its long hard nose at her, with nostrils distended, 
as though it longed to toss her on its cruel horns. 

She felt dazed. She scarcely suffered, except for the 
aching in her legs, as she threw herself across her old 
bed. With half-shut eyes she lay staring at the two 
pictures on the wall opposite, “Wide Awake,” and “Fast 
Asleep,” which had once hung in Maurice’s nursery. 
Darling little baby pictures; how she had always loved 
them— She wished she had the strength of mind to kill 


THE FLIGHT OF PHEASANT 


321 

herself. Tear the sheets into strips and wind them 
tighter and tighter around her throat, or, better still, hang 
herself from one of the rafters in that back room in the 
attic. She saw herself dangling there, purple-faced — 
saw horrified Maurice discovering her—saw herself 
buried at the crossroad with a stake in her inside. She 
did not know whether that was still done, but it was 
possible that the custom would be revived for her — 

She fell into a kind of nightmare doze, in which the 
bed rocked beneath her like a cradle. It rocked faster 
and faster, rolling her from side to side. She was not a 
real, a wholesome infant, but a grotesque changeling, 
leering up at the distraught mother who now peered in at 
her, shrieking, tearing her hair. Again the scream rent 
the silence, and Pheasant, with sweat starting on her 
face, sprang up in bed. 

She was alone. The electric light shone brightly. 
Again came the loud peal — not a scream, but the ringing 
of the doorbell. 

She leaped to the floor. The lock of the door had been 
broken many years. She began to drag at the washstand 
to barricade it. 

Downstairs the sound had also penetrated Vaughan’s 
stupor. He lurched to the door, which Pheasant had 
locked behind her, and threw it open. Renny and Piers 
Whiteoak stood there, their faces like two pale discs 
against the blackness. Renny at once stepped inside, but 
Piers remained in the porch. 

“ Is Pheasant here ? ” asked Renny. 

“Yes.” He eyed them with solemnity. 

Renny turned to his brother. “ Come in, Piers.” 

Vaughan led the way toward the dining room, but 
Piers stopped at the foot of the stairs. 

“ Is she upstairs ? ” he asked in a thick voice, placing 
one hand on the newel post as though to steady himself. 


322 JAL.NA 

Vaughan, somewhat sobered by the strangeness of the 
brothers’ aspect, remembered something. 

“ Yes, but you’re not going up to her. You’ll let her 
alone.” 

“He won’t hurt her,” said Renny. 

“ He’s not to go up. I promised her.” 

He took the youth’s arm, but Piers wrenched himself 
away. 

“I order you!” shouted Vaughan. “Whose house 
is this? Whose daughter is she? She’s left you. Very 
well — let her stay. I want her.” 

“ She is my wife. I’m going to her.” 

“ What the hell’s the matter, anyway ? I don’t know 
what it’s all about. She comes here — done up— fright¬ 
ened out of her wits — I remember now. Then you 
come like a pair of murderers.” 

“I must see her.” 

“You shall not see her.” Again he clutched Piers’s 
arm. The two struggled beneath the sinister head of the 
great moose, under the massive antlers of which their 
manhood seemed weak and futile. 

In a moment Piers had freed himself and was spring¬ 
ing up the stairs. 

“Come into the dining room, Maurice,” said Renny, 
“ and I ’ll tell you what is wrong. Did she tell you 
nothing ? ” 

Maurice followed him, growling: “A strange way to 
act in a man’s house at this hour.” 

“Did she tell you nothing?” asked Renny, when they 
were in the dining room. 

“ I don’t remember what she said.” He picked up the 
decanter. “ Have a drink.” 

“ No, nor you either.” He took the decanter from his 
friend and put it in the sideboard, decisively locking the 
door. 


THE FLIGHT OF PHEASANT 323 

Vaughan regarded the action with dismal whimsicality. 

“What a to-do,” he said, “because the kids have had 
a row!” 

Renny turned on him savagely. “ Good God, Maurice, 
you don’t call this a row, do you?” 

“ Well, what’s the trouble, anyway ? ” 

“The trouble is this: that brat of yours has wrecked 
poor young Piers’s life.” 

“ The hell she has! Who is the man ? ” 

“His own brother—Eden.” 

Vaughan groaned. “Where is he?” 

“ He made off in the car.” 

“Why didn’t she go with him? Why did she come 
to me?” 

“How can I tell? He probably didn’t ask her. Oh, 
the whole rotten business harks back to me! It’s my 
fault. I’d no right to let Eden loaf about all winter, 
writing poetry. It’s made a scoundrel of him! ” 

A wry smile flitted across Vaughan’s face at the un¬ 
conscious humor of the remark. 

“ I should n’t blame myself too much if I were you. If 
writing poetry has made Eden into a scoundrel, he was 
probably well on the way beforehand. Possibly that’s 
why he turned to it.” 

There was a deep understanding between these two. 
They had confided in each other as they had in no one 
else. Renny, stirred by the disclosures of the night, burst 
out: “Maurice, in thought I am no better than Eden! 
I love his wife. She’s never out of my mind.” 

Vaughan looked into the tormented eyes of his friend 
with commiseration. 

“Do you, Renny? I had never thought of such a 
thing. She doesn’t seem to me your sort of girl at 
all.” 

“ That is the trouble. She is n’t. If she were, it would 


324 JALNA 

be easier to put the thought of her aside. She’s intellec¬ 
tual, she’s — ” 

“I should say she is cold.” 

“ You ’re wrong. It is I, all my life, who have had a 
sort of cold sensuality — no tenderness went with my 
love for a woman. I don’t think I had any compassion. 
No, I’m sure I hadn’t.” He knit his brows as though 
recalling past affairs. “ But I’m full of compassion for 
Alayne.” 

“Does she love you?” 

“Yes.” 

“ What about Eden ? ” 

“ She had a romantic devotion to him, but it’s over.” 

“Does she know about this?” Maurice lifted his 
head in the direction of the room above. 

“Yes. I only had a glimpse of her in the hall — the 
house was in an uproar. She had a strange, exalted look 
as though nothing mattered now.” 

“I see. What is Piers going to do?” 

“Piers is a splendid fellow — tough as an oak. He 
said to me, ‘ She’s mine; nothing can change that. I’m 
going to fetch her home.’ But I should pity Eden if he 
got his hands on him.” 

“They are coming down. Heavens, they were quiet 
enough! Must I speak to them?” 

“ No, let the poor young beggars alone.” 

The two came slowly down the stairs. Like people 
leaving the scene of a catastrophe, they carried in their 
eyes the terror of what they had beheld. Their faces 
were rigid. Piers’s mouth was drawn to one side in 
an expression of disgust. It was like a mask of tragedy. 
They stood in the wide doorway of the dining room 
as in a picture framed. Maurice and Renny smiled at 
them awkwardly, trying to put a decent face on the 
affair. 


THE FLIGHT OF PHEASANT 


325 

“Going, eh?” Maurice said. “Have something first, 
Piers.” He made a movement toward the sideboard. 

“ Thanks,” returned Piers in a lifeless voice. He en¬ 
tered the dining room. 

“Where’s that key, Renny?” 

Renny produced the key; a tantalus was brought forth, 
and a drink poured for Piers. Maurice, with Renny’s 
eye on him, did not take one himself. 

Piers gulped down the spirits, the glass rattling gro¬ 
tesquely against his teeth. Under the ashen tan of his 
face, color crept back. No one spoke, but the three men 
stared with gloomy intensity at Pheasant, still framed in 
the doorway. The magnetic currents between the mem¬ 
bers of the group seemed palpably to vibrate across the 
atmosphere of the room. Then Pheasant, putting up her 
hands, as though to push their peering faces back from 
her, exclaimed: “Don’t stand staring at me like that! 
One would think you’d never seen me before.” 

“You look awfully done,” said Maurice. “I think 
you ought to have a mouthful of something to brace 
you. A little Scotch and water, eh?” 

“I might if I were asked,” she returned, with a pa¬ 
thetic attempt at bravado. She took the glass in a steady 
little hand, and drank. 

“ I shall come along later,” said Renny to Piers. “ I’m 
going to stop a while with Maurice.” But he continued 
to stare at Pheasant. 

“ I know I’m a scarlet woman, but I think you ’re very 
cruel. Your eyes are like a brand, Renny Wlliteoak.” 

“ Pheasant, I was not even thinking of you. My — my 
mind was quite somewhere else.” 

Piers turned on Maurice in a sudden rage. “It’s all 
your fault! ” he broke out, vehemently. “ You never gave 
the poor child a chance. She was as ignorant as any little 
immigrant when I married her.” 


326 JALNA 

“She doesn’t seem to have learned any good from 
you,” retorted Vaughan. 

“She has learned all of decency that she knows. Was 
she ever sent to school ? ” 

“ She had two governesses.” 

“Yes. They both left inside of six months, because 
they couldn’t live in the house with you.” 

“Oh, I suppose it is my fault that she inherits her 
mother’s instinct,” returned Maurice, bitterly. “And 
Renny has just been telling me that it is his fault that 
Eden is a scoundrel. We ’ve taken on a lot of responsi¬ 
bility.” 

“You are talking like fools,” said Renny. 

“ Please do not quarrel about me,” put in Pheasant. 
“ I think I’m going to faint or something.” 

“Better take her out in the air,” said Renny. “The 
liquor was too strong for her.” 

“ Come along,” said Piers, and took her arm. 

The touch of his hand had an instant effect on Pheas¬ 
ant. A deep blush suffused her face and neck; she 
swayed toward him, raising her eyes to his with a look 
of tragic humility. 

Outside, the coolness of the dawn refreshed her. He 
released her arm, and preceded her through the grove and 
down into the ravine. They walked in silence, she seem¬ 
ing no more than his shadow, following him through 
every divergence of the path, hesitating when he hesi¬ 
tated. Centuries before, two such figures might have 
been seen traversing this same ravine, a young Indian 
and his squaw, moving as his silent shadow in the first 
light of morning, primitive figures so much akin to the 
forest life about them that the awakening birds did not 
cease twittering as they passed. On the bridge above the 
stream he stopped. Below lay the pool where they had 
first seen their love reflected as an opening flower. They 


THE FLIGHT OF PHEASANT 


327 

looked down into it now, no longer able to share the 
feelings its mirrored loveliness excited in them. A prim¬ 
rose light suffused the sky and in a deeper tone lay cupped 
in the pool, around the brink of which things tender and 
green strove with gentle urgency to catch the sun’s first 
rays. 

An English pheasant, one of some imported by Renny, 
moved sedately among the young rushes, its plumage 
shining like a coat of mail. Careless, irresponsible bird, 
Piers thought, and for one wild instant he wished that 
she were one with the bird — that no man might recog¬ 
nize a woman in her but himself; that he might keep her 
hidden and love her secretly, untortured by the fear and 
loathing he now felt. 

Pheasant saw, drowned in that pool, all the careless 
irresponsibility of the past, the weakness, the indolence, 
that had made her a victim of Eden’s dalliance. If Piers 
loathed her, how much more she loathed the image of 
Eden’s face which faintly smiled at her from the change¬ 
ful mirror of the pool! Just to live, to make up to Piers 
by her devotion for what he had suffered — to win from 
his eyes love again instead of that look of fear which he 
had turned on her when he entered the bedroom! She 
had expected rage — fury. And he had looked at her 
in an agony of fear. But he had taken her back! They 
were going home to Jalna. She longed for the thick 
walls of the house as a broken-winged bird for its nest. 

“ Come,” he said, as though awakening from a dream, 
and moved on up the path that led from the ravine to the 
lawn. 

The turkeys were crossing the lawn, led by the cock, 
whose blazing wattles swung arrogantly in the first sun 
rays. His wives, with burnished breasts and beaming 
eyes, followed close behind, craning their necks, alter¬ 
nately lifting and dragging their slender feet, echoing his 


328 JALNA 

bold gobble with plaintive pipings. The hens paused to 
look with curiosity at the boy and girl who emerged from 
the ravine, but the cock, absorbed by his own ego, circled 
before them, swelling himself rigidly, dropping his wings, 
urging into his wattles a still more burning red. 

Down the wet roof Finch’s pigeons were strutting, 
sliding, rooketty-cooing, peering over the eaves at the 
two who slowly mounted the steps. 

Inside, the house lay in silence except for the heavy 
snoring of Grandmother in her bedroom off the lower 
hall. It was as if some strange beast had a lair beneath 
the stairs, and was growling a challenge to the sun. 

They passed the closed doors of the hall above and 
went into their own room. Pheasant dropped into a 
chair by the window, but Piers, with a businesslike air, 
began collecting various articles — his brushes, his shav¬ 
ing things, the clothes which he wore about the farm. 
She watched his movements with the unquestioning sub¬ 
missiveness of a child. One thought sustained her: 
“How glad I am that I am here with Piers, and not 
flying with Eden as he wanted me to! ” 

When he had got together what he wanted, he took the 
key from the door and inserted it on the outside. He said, 
without looking at her: — 

“ Here you stay, till I can stand the sight of your face 
again.” 

He went out, locking the door behind him. He climbed 
the long stairs to the attic, and, throwing his things on 
the bed in Finch’s room, began to change his clothes 
for the day’s work. In the passage he had met Alayne, 
looking like a ghost. They had passed without speaking. 


XXV 

FIDDLER’S HUT 


Three weeks later Mr. Wragge was an object of great 
interest one morning to a group of Jersey calves, as he 
crossed their pasture. They ceased gamboling, butting, 
and licking each other, to regard him with steadfast 
scrutiny out of liquid dark eyes. He was in his shirt 
sleeves, his coat being thrown over one arm, for the day 
was hot; his hat was tilted over his eyes, and he carried, 
balanced on one hand, a tray covered with a white cloth. 
He was smoking, as usual, and his expression was one 
of deep concern. 

When he reached a stile at the far end of the pad- 
dock, he set the tray on the top, climbed over, then, 
balancing the tray at a still more dangerous angle, 
proceeded on his way. It now lay through an old un¬ 
cared-for apple orchard, the great trees of which were 
green with moss, half smothered in wild grapevines 
and Virginia creeper, and their boughs, like heavy wings, 
swept to the long coarse grass. Following a winding 
path, he passed a spring, where long ago a primitive well 
had been made by the simple process of sinking a wooden 
box. The lid of this was now gone, the wood decayed, 
and it was used by birds as a drinking fountain and bath. 
The liquid gurgle of the spring as it entered the well made 
a pleasant undertone to the song of birds with which the 
air was merry. 

Embowered in vines, almost hidden by flowering dog¬ 
wood, stood the hut where Fiddler Jock, by the consent of 
Captain Philip Whiteoak, had lived in solitude, the story 


330 JALNA 

of whose death young Finch had told Alayne on their 
first walk together. 

Here Meg Whiteoak had been living for three 
weeks* 

Before approaching the threshold, Mr. Wragge again 
set down the tray, put on his coat, straightened his hat, 
threw away his cigarette, and intensified his expression 
of concern. 

“Miss W’iteoak, it’s me, ma’am,” he said loudly, as 
though to reassure her, immediately after knocking. 

The door opened and Meg Whiteoak appeared, with an 
expression as sweetly calm, but a face paler than for¬ 
merly. “Thank you, Rags,” she said, taking the tray. 
“Thank you very much.” 

“ I’d be gratified, ma’am,” he said anxiously, “ if you 
was to lift the napkin and tike a look at wot I ’ve brought 
you. I’d be better pleased if I knew you found it 
temptin’.” 

Miss Whiteoak accordingly peered under the napkin and 
discovered a plate of fresh scones, a bowl of ripe straw¬ 
berries, and a jug of thick clotted cream such as she liked 
with them. A sweet smile curved her lips. She took the 
tray and set it on the table in the middle of the low, 
scantily furnished room. 

“It looks very tempting, Rags. These are the first 
strawberries I’ve seen.” 

“They are the very first,” he announced, eagerly. “I 
picked them myself, ma’am. There’s going to be a won¬ 
derful crop, they s’y, but it don’t seem to matter, the w’y 
things are goin’ on with us these days.” 

“That’s very true,” she said, sighing. “How is my 
grandmother to-day, Rags?” 

“Flourishing amazing, ma’am. My wife says she 
talked of nothink but ’er birthd’y the ’ole time she was 
doin’ up ’er room. She ’ad a queer little spell on Thurs- 


FIDDLER’S HUT 


33i 

day, but Mr. Ernest, ’e thought it was just that she’d 
eat too much of the goose grivy. She looked remark¬ 
able well yesterd’y, and went to church the sime as 
usual.” 

“That is good.” She bit her full underlip, and then 
asked, with an attempt at nonchalance: “ Have you heard 
anything about Mrs. Eden’s leaving?” 

“ I believe she’s to go as soon as the birthd’y celebra¬ 
tions are over. The old lidy wouldn’t ’ear of it before. 
Ow, Miss W’iteoak, she’s only a shadder of ’er former 
self, Mrs. Eden is; and Mr. Piers is not much better. Of 
all the people in the ’ouse those two show the wear and 
tear of wot we ’re goin’ through the most. Of course, 
I’ve never seen Mrs. Piers. She ain’t never shown up 
in the family circle yet, but my wife saw ’er lookin’ out 
of the winder, and she says she looks just the sime. 
Dear me, some people can stand any think! As for me, 
I’m not the man I was at all. My nerves ’ave all gone 
back on me. It’s almost like another attack of shell 
shock, you might s’y.” 

“ I’m very sorry, Rags. You do look pale.” 

He took out a clean folded handkerchief and wiped his 
brow. “ It is n’t as though my own family relations was 
wot they were, ma’am. Mrs. Wragge and me, we ’ad our 
little altercations, as you know, but, tike it as a ’ole, our 
life together was amiable; but now,” he dolefully shook 
his head, “ it’s nothing more nor less than terrific. Me 
being on your side and she all for Mr. Renny, there’s 
never a moment’s peace. W’y, yesterd’y — Sunday and 
all as it was — she up and shied the stove lifter at my 
’ead. I escaped to the coal cellar, where she pursued me, 
and as for ’er language! Well, Mr. Renny ’e ’eard the 
goings on and ’e came rattling down the basement stairs 
in a fine rage, and said if ’e ’eard any more of it we 
should go. The worst was, ’e seemed to blime me for 


332 JALNA 

the 'ole affair. I never thought I’d live to see the d’y 
’e’d glare at me the w’y ’e did.” 

“ That’s because you are on my side, Rags,” she said 
sadly. 

“I know, and that makes it all the worse. It’s a 
’ouse divided against itself. I’ve seen deadlocks in my 
time, but I ’ve never seen a deadlock like this. Well, 
I ’ll be takin’ aw’y wot little appitite you ’ave with my 
talk. I must be off. I’ve a thousand things to do, and 
of course Mrs. Wragge puts all the ’ard work on to me 
as usual. And if you ’ll believe me, ma’am, she’s so evilly 
disposed that I’ad to steal those little scones I brought you.” 

He turned away, and when he had gone a few yards 
he put on his hat, removed his coat, and lighted a cigarette. 
Just as he reached the stile he met Renny Whiteoak 
crossing it. 

Renny said sarcastically: “ I see you have a path worn 
to the hut, Rags. Been carrying trays to Miss Whiteoak, 
I suppose.” 

Rags straightened himself with an air of self-righteous 
humility. 

“And if I didn’t carry trays to ’er, wot do you sup¬ 
pose would ’appen, sir? W’y, she’d starve; that’s wot 
she’d do. It would look rather bad, sir, for a lidy to die 
of starvation on ’er brother’s estite, and ’im livin’ in the 
lap of luxury.” 

This remark was thrown after the retreating figure of 
his master, who had strode angrily away. Rags stared 
after him till he disappeared among the trees, muttering 
bitterly: “ This is all the gratitood I get for the w’y I’ve 
slaved for you in war and in peace! Curses yesterd’y, 
and a sneer and a dirty look to-d’y. You ill-tempered, 
domineerin’ red-’eaded slave driver! But you’ve met 
your match in Miss W’iteoak, let me tell you — and serves 
you right.” 


FIDDLER’S HUT 


333 

With this he climbed over the stile, and returned medi¬ 
tatively to the basement kitchen. 

When Renny reached the hut, he found the door open, 
and inside he could see his sister sitting by the table, 
pouring herself a cup of tea. She looked up as she heard 
his step, and then, with an expression of remote calm, 
dropped her eyes to the stream of amber liquid issuing 
from the spout of the teapot. She sat with one rounded 
elbow on the table, her head supported on her hand. She 
looked so familiar and yet so strange, sitting in these 
poverty-stricken surroundings, that he scarcely knew 
what to say to her. However, he went in, and stood look¬ 
ing down at the tray. 

“ What particular meal is this ? ” he asked. 

“ I have no idea,” she answered, buttering a scone. “ I 
keep no count of meals now.” 

He looked about him, at the low, rain-stained ceiling, 
the rusty stove, the uneven, worm-eaten floor, the inner 
room with its narrow cot bed. 

“This is an awful hole you’ve chosen to sulk in,” he 
commented. 

She did not answer, but ate her scone with composure, 
and after it two strawberries smothered in cream. 

“You’ll make a charming old lady after you’ve spent 
ten years or so here,” he gibed. 

He saw a sparkle of temper in her eyes then. 

“You will have the satisfaction of knowing that you 
drove me to it.” 

“ That is utter nonsense. I did everything I could to 
prevent you.” 

“ You did not send that girl away. You allowed Piers 
to bring her into the house with me, after her behavior.” 

“Meggie, can’t you see anyone’s side of this question 
but your own ? Can’t you see that poor young Piers was 
doing a rather heroic thing in bringing her home ? ” 


334 JALNA 

“ I will not live under the same roof with that girl. I 
told you that three weeks ago, and you still try to force 
me.” 

“ But I can’t allow you to go on like this! ” he cried. 
“ We shall be the talk of the countryside.” 

She regarded him steadfastly. “ Have you ever cared 
what the countryside thought of you?” 

“No; but I can’t have people saying that my sister is 
living in a tumbledown hut.” 

“ You can turn me out, of course.” 

He ignored this, and continued: “People will simply 
say that you have become demented.” 

“ It will not surprise me if I do.” 

He stared at her, positively frightened. “ Meggie, how 
can you say such things? By God, I have enough to 
bear without your turning against me! ” 

She said, with calculated cruelty: “You have Alayne. 
Why should you need me ? ” 

“ I have not got Alayne,” he retorted furiously. “ She 
is going away the day after Gran’s birthday.” 

“ I do not think she will go away.” 

“ What do you mean ? ” he asked, suspiciously. 

“ Oh, I think you have a pretty little game of progres¬ 
sive marriage going on at Jalna. No, Alayne will not 
go away.” 

His highly colored face took on a deeper hue. Its 
lines became harsh. 

“You’ll drive me to do something desperate,” he said, 
and flung to the door. 

She pushed the tray from her and rose to her feet. 

“Will you please go? You are mistaken if you think 
you can abuse me into putting up with loose women in 
my house. As to being the talk of the countryside, there 
must be strange stories about the married couples of our 
family already.” 


FIDDLER’S HUT 


335 


“ Rot! It’s all within the family.” 

“ All within the family? Just think those words over. 
They ’ve got a sinister sound, like the goings on in fami¬ 
lies in the Middle Ages. We should have been born two 
hundred years ago at the very least. No woman who 
respects herself could stay at Jalna.” 

He broke into a tirade against her, and all hard, nar¬ 
row-minded women. She followed him to the door, 
laying her hand on the latch. 

“You can never argue, Renny, without using such 
dreadful language. I can’t stand any more of it.” 

He had stepped outside, and his spaniels, having traced 
him to the hut, ran to meet him with joyous barks, jump¬ 
ing up to paw him and lick his hands. For an instant 
Meg almost relented, seeing him there with his dogs, 
looking so entirely her beloved Renny. But the instant 
passed; she closed the door firmly and returned to her 
chair, where she sat plunged in thought, not bitterly 
reviewing the past as Maurice did, nor creating an imagi¬ 
nary and happy present, but with all her mind concen¬ 
trated on those two hated alien women in her house. 

Renny, returning to his stables, found Maurice there, 
waiting to talk over some proposed exchange. He was 
in the stall with Wakefield’s pony, feeding her sugar from 
his pocket. He turned as Renny entered. 

“ Well,” he said, “ how are things going now ? ” 

“Like the devil,” he returned, slapping the pony sharply, 
for she had bitten at him, not liking the interruption of 
her feast. “Piers still keeps Pheasant locked in her 
room, and goes about with an expression like the wrath of 
God. Uncle Nicholas and Aunt Augusta quarrel all day 
long. He’s trying to worry her out of the house and back 
to England, and she won’t go. He and Uncle Ernest 
are n’t speaking at all. Alayne is looking ill, and Grand¬ 
mother talks ceaselessly about her birthday. She’s so 


336 JALNA 

afraid that something will happen to her before she 
achieves it that she refuses to leave the room.” 

“ When is it?” 

“ A week from to-day. Alayne is staying here till it’s 
over; then she goes back to New York, to her old posi¬ 
tion with a publisher’s firm.” 

“Look here; why doesn’t she divorce Eden? Then 
you and she could marry.” 

“ The proceedings would be too beastly unsavory. No, 
there’s no hope there.” 

Something vicious in him prompted him to tease the 
pony. He cuffed her till she drew back her lips, showed 
all her teeth, bit at him, neighed, and finally reared and 
struck at him with her sharp hoofs. Maurice moved out 
of the way. 

“ Stop it, Renny,” he said, half angry and half laugh¬ 
ing at the display of temper by the pair. “You’ll make 
her an ugly little brute for Wake to handle.” 

“That’s true.” He desisted at once, red-faced from 
temper, rather ashamed of himself. 

“It’s a pity Alayne could not have seen that.” 

“ Yes, is n’t it? ” He began to stroke the pony. “ Here, 
give me a lump of sugar, Maurice.” 

“ No, I ’ll give it to her myself. She and I are friends. 
We have no quarrel to patch up. Have we, pet?” 

He offered her sugar, but, too upset to take it, she 
wrinkled her lips and cast baleful glances at them both. 
As they left the loose box, Maurice asked: “ How is Meg, 
Renny ? ” 

“ I ’ve just been to see her. She’s still stuck in that 
awful hut, sulking. Nothing will budge her. It looks 
as though she would spend the rest of her days there. 
I don’t know what I’m to do. If you could only see her! 
It would be pathetic if it weren’t ridiculous. She has a 
few sticks of furniture she took from the attic. The floor 


FIDDLER’S HUT 


337 

is bare. They say that all she eats is the little that Rags 
carries over to her. I met him with a tray. The fellow 
is nothing but a spy and a talebearer. He keeps her thor¬ 
oughly posted as to all that goes on in the house. Aunt 
Augusta was for starving her out, forbidding Rags to 
take food to her; but I couldn’t do that. She shut the 
door in my face just now.” 

“It’s appalling.” 

They walked in silence for a space, along the passage 
between stalls, among the sounds and smells they both 
loved — deep, quiet drinking, peaceful crunching, soft 
whinnying, clean straw, harness oil, liniment. 

Vaughan said: “I’ve been wondering — in fact, I lay 
awake half the night wondering — if there is a chance 
that Meg might take me now. Pheasant’s being gone, 
and Jalna in such an upset, and things having reached a 
sort of deadlock, it would be a way of solving the prob¬ 
lem for her. Do you think I’d have a show ? ” 

Renny looked at his friend with amazement. 

“ Maurice, do you really mean it? Are you still in love 
with her ? ” 

“You know perfectly well I’ve never cared for any 
other woman,” he answered, with some irritation. “ It’s 
not easy for you Whiteoaks to understand that.” 

“I quite understand, only — twenty years is a long 
time between proposals.” 

“If things had not turned out as they have, I should 
never have asked her again.” 

“ I hope to God she ’ll have you! ” And then, fearing 
that his tone had been too fervent, he added: “ I hate to 
see you living such a lonely life, old man.” 

Meg had come out of the cottage, and was bending 
over a spray of sweetbriar that had thrust its thorny way 
up through a mass of dogwood. She loved its wild 


33 8 JALNA 

sweetness, and yet it made her sadder than before. Mau¬ 
rice noticed, as she raised a startled face to his, that her 
white cheeks were dappled by tears. One of them fell, 
and hung, like a bright dewdrop, on the briar. 

“I’m sorry if I frightened you.” 

His voice, unheard for so many years, came to her 
with the sombre cadence of a bell sounding through the 
dark. She had forgotten what a deep voice he had. As 
a youth, it had seemed too deep for his slenderness, but 
now, from this heavy frame, she found it strangely, 
thrillingly moving. 

“ I had no right to intrude on you,” he went on, and 
stopped, his eyes resting on the spray of briar; for he 
would not embarrass her by looking into her tear-stained 
face. Why did she not wipe her cheeks ? He reflected, 
with a shade of annoyance, that it was just like Meggie 
to leave those glittering evidences of her anguish in full 
view. It gave her a strange advantage, set her on a plane 
of suffering above those around her. 

Unable to speak, he rolled a cigarette deftly — in one 
hand, for the other had been crippled in the War. He 
could not have found a more poignant way of pleading 
his case. She had passed him often on the road and seen 
that he was going gray. She had heard that one of his 
hands was useless, but it was not until she saw the wrist 
in its leather bandage, above the helpless hand, that she 
realized how alone he was, how pathetic, how he needed 
to be taken care of. Renny was hard, careless, unhurt; 
he was arrogant, immovable. Eden was gone. Piers 
clung to his wretched young wife. Finch was unsatis¬ 
factory, moody. Wake was a self-sufficient little rogue. 
But here was Maurice, her unhappy lover, seeking her 
out with a strange, hungry expression in his eyes. 

The droop of his mouth stirred something in her that 
she had forgotten, something buried for years and years. 


FIDDLER’S HUT 


339 

It did not stir weakly, feebly, like a half-dead thing, but 
boundingly, richly, like the sap that thrilled the growing 
things in this June day. She swayed beneath the sudden 
rush of its coming and put out a hand to steady herself. 
Color flooded her face and neck. 

He dropped the cigarette and caught her hand. 

“ Meggie, Meggie,” he burst out. “ Have me — marry 
me! Meggie, oh, my darling girl!” 

She did not answer in words, but put her arms about 
his neck and raised her lips to his. All the stubbornness 
was gone from their pretty curves, and only the sweetness 
was left. 


XXVI 

GRANDMOTHER’S BIRTHDAY 


The darkness had just fallen on Grandmother’s birthday. 
It had descended slowly, seeming reluctant to draw the 
curtain on that day of days. But now the sky was a royal 
purple, and quite a hundred stars twinkled with all the 
mystic glamour of birthday candles. 

Grandmother had not slept a wink since dawn. Not 
for worlds would she have missed the savor of one mo¬ 
ment of this day, toward which she had been straining for 
many years. She could sleep all she wanted to after the 
celebration was over. There would be little else to do. 
Nothing to look forward to. 

With her breakfast had come all the household to con¬ 
gratulate her, wish her joy, and other birthdays to follow. 
She had put her strong old arms about each body that, in 
succession, had leaned over her bed, and after a hearty kiss 
had mumbled: “Thank you. Thank you, my dear.” 
Wakefield, on behalf of the tribe, had presented her with 
a huge bouquet of red, yellow, and white roses, an even 
hundred of them, tied with red streamers. 

The day had been a succession of heart-touching sur¬ 
prises. Her old eyes had become red-rimmed from tears 
of joy. The farmers and villagers of the neighborhood, 
to whom she had been a generous friend in her day, be¬ 
sieged her with calls and gifts of fruit and flowers. Mr. 
Fennel had had the church bell ring one hundred merry 
peals for her, the clamor of which, sounding through the 
valley, had transported her to her childhood in Ireland; 
she did not know just why, but there it was; she was in 
County Meath again! 


GRANDMOTHER’S BIRTHDAY 341 

Mrs. Wragge had baked a three-tiered birthday cake, 
which had been decorated in the city. On the top, sur¬ 
rounded by waves of icing, was a white-and-silver model 
of a sailing vessel such as she had crossed the ocean in, 
from India. On the side, in silver comfits, the date of her 
birth, 1825. This stood on a rosewood table in the middle 
of the drawing-room, beside a silver-framed photograph 
of Captain Philip Whiteoak. How Grandmother wished 
he could have seen the cake! She imagined herself, 
strong and springy of step, leading him up to the table to 
view it. She pictured his start of surprise, his blue eyes 
bulging with amazement, and his, “ Ha, Adeline, there J s 
a cake worth living a hundred years for! ” 

Oh, the feel of his firm, muscular arm in her hand! 
A dozen times that day she had kissed the photograph. 
At last Ernest had been moved to say: “ Mamma, must 
you kiss it so often? You are moistening off all the 
gloss.” 

Now night had fallen and the guests were arriving for 
the evening party. The Fennels, the admiral’s daughters, 
Miss Pink, and even old friends from a long distance. 
Her chair had been moved to the terrace, where she could 
see the bonfire all ready to be lighted. It had taken her 
an unconscionably long time to make the journey there, 
for she was weak from excitement and lack of sleep. In 
the summerhouse two violins and a flute discoursed 
the insouciant, trilling airs of sixty years ago, filling the 
air with memories and the darkness with plaintive 
ghosts. Grandmother’s sons and eldest grandson had 
spared no trouble or expense to make the party a 
memorable one. 

On her right hand sat Ernest and Nicholas, and on 
her left Augusta and Alayne. Augusta remarked to 
Alayne: “ What a blessing that Meg is off on her honey¬ 
moon, and not sulking in Fiddler’s hut! It would have 


342 JALNA 

spoiled the party completely if she had been there, and 
even more so if she had come.” 

“She wasted no time when she finally made up her 
mind, did she?” 

“ No, indeed. I think she was simply shamed into it. 
She might have gone on living there forever. Renny 
would never have given in.” Lady Buckley regarded with 
complacency her nephew’s tall figure, silhouetted against 
the flare of the musician’s torches. 

“ I am afraid,” said Alayne, “ that Meg hated me very 
much after our quarrel about Pheasant. I know that 
she thought my attitude toward her positively indecent.” 

“ My dear, Meg is a narrow-minded Victorian. So are 
my brothers, though Ernest’s gentleness gives him the 
appearance of broad-mindedness. You and I are mod¬ 
erns— you by birth, and I by the progression of an open 
mind. I shall be very sorry to see you go to-morrow. I 
have grown very fond of you.” 

“Thank you; and I have of you — of most of you. 
There are so many things I shall miss.” 

“I know, I know, my dear. You must come back to 
visit us. I shall not leave Jalna while Mamma lives, 
though Nicholas would certainly like to see me depart. 
Yes, you must visit us.” 

“ I’m afraid not. You must come to see me in New 
York. My aunts would be delighted to meet you.” 

Augusta whispered: “ What do they know about Eden 
and you?” 

“Only that we have separated, and that I am going 
back to my old work.” 

“Sensible—very. The less one’s relatives know of 
one’s life the better. I had no peace in my married life 
till the ocean rolled between me and my people. Dear 
me, Renny’s lighting the bonfire. I hope it’s quite safe. 
I wonder if you would mind, Alayne, going down and 


GRANDMOTHER’S BIRTHDAY 


343 

asking him to be very careful. A spark from it smoulder¬ 
ing on the roof, and we might be burned in our beds to¬ 
night.” 

As Alayne moved slowly down the lawn, the first 
sparkle curled about the base of the pyramid of hard¬ 
wood sticks that had as their foundation a great chunk of 
resinous pine. A column of smoke arose, steady and 
dense, and then was dispersed by the sudden and furious 
blossoming of flowers of flame. In an instant the en¬ 
tire scene was changed. The ravine lay, a cavernous gulf 
of blackness, while the branches of the near-by trees were 
flung out in fierce, metallic grandeur. The torches in the 
summerhouse became mere flickering sparks: the stars 
were blown out like birthday candles. The figures of the 
young men moving about the bonfire became heroic; their 
monstrous shadows strove together upon the rich tapestry 
of the evergreens. The air was full of music, of voices, 
of the crackling of flames. 

Out of the shadow thrown by a chestnut tree in bloom, 
Pheasant ran across the grass to Alayne’s side. She 
seemed to have grown during those weeks of her imprison¬ 
ment. Her dress looked too short for her. Her move¬ 
ments had the wistful energy of those of a growing child. 
Her hair, uncut for some time, curved in a quaint little 
tail at her nape. 

“This freedom is wonderful,” she breathed. “And 
all that pretty firelight, and the fiddles! Try as I will, 
Alayne, I can’t help feeling happy to-night.” 

“Why should you try not to be happy? You must 
be as happy as a bird, Pheasant. I’m so glad we had that 
hour together this morning.” 

“ You’ve been beautiful to me, Alayne. No one in the 
world has ever been so good to me. Those little notes you 
slipped under my door! ” 

Alayne took her hand. “Come, I am to go and tell 


344 JALNA 

Renny to be careful. Aunt Augusta is afraid we shall be 
burned in our beds.” 

The three youngest of the Whiteoaks were in a group 
together. As the girls approached, Finch turned his 
back on them and skulked into the shadow, but Wakefield 
ran to meet them and put an arm about the waist of 
each. 

“Come, my girls,” he said, airily, “join the merry 
circle. Let’s take hands and dance around the bonfire. If 
only we could get Granny to dance, too! Please, let’s 
dance! ” He tugged at their hands. “ Piers, take Pheas¬ 
ant’s other hand. Renny, take Alayne’s hand. We’re 
going to dance.” 

Alayne felt her hand being taken into Renny’s. Wake¬ 
field’s exuberance was not transmittable, but he ran hither 
and thither, exhorting the guests to dance, till at last 
he did get a circle together on the lawn for Sir Roger de 
Coverley. But it was the elders who were moved to dis¬ 
port themselves, after a glass or two of punch from the 
silver bowl on the porch. The younger ones hung back 
in the shelter of the blazing pile, entangled in the web 
of emotions which they had woven about themselves. 

Eden was not among them, but the vision of his fair 
face, with its smiling lips, mocked each in turn. To 
Renny it said: “ I have shown you a girl at last whom 
you can continue to love without possessing, with no hope 
of possessing, who will haunt you all your days.” To 
Alayne: “ I have made you experience, in a few months, 
love, passion, despair, shame, enough for a lifetime. Now 
go back to your sterile work and see if you can forget.” 
To Piers: “You sneered at me for a poet. Do you ac¬ 
knowledge that I am a better lover than you?” To 
Pheasant: “ I have poisoned your life.” To Finch, hid¬ 
ing in the darkness: “ I have flung you, headfirst, into the 
horrors of awakening.” 


GRANDMOTHER’S BIRTHDAY 345 

Renny and Alayne, their fingers still locked, stood look- 
ing upward at the flame-colored smoke that rose toward 
the sky in billows endlessly pursuing each other, while, 
after the crashing of a log, a shower of sparks sprang 
upward like a swarm of fireflies. In the glare their faces 
were transfigured to a strange beauty, yet this beauty 
was lost, not registered on any consciousness, for they 
dared not look at each other. 

“ I have been watching two of those sparks,” she said, 
“sparks that flew up, and then together, and then apart 
again, till out of sight — like us.” 

“ I won’t have it so. Not till out of sight, extinguished 
— if you mean that. No, I am not hopeless. There’s 
something for us besides separation. You couldn’t be¬ 
lieve that we’ll never meet again, could you?” 

“Oh, we may meet again — that is, if you ever come 
to New York. By that time your feelings may have 
changed.” 

“ Changed! Alayne, why should you want to spoil our 
last moments together by suggesting that ? ” 

“I suppose, being a woman, I just wanted to hear 
you deny it. You ’ve no idea what it is to be a woman. 
I used to think in my old life that we were equal: men 
and women. Since I’ve lived at Jalna, it seems to me 
that women are only slaves.” 

Someone had thrown an armful of brushwood on the 
fire. For a space it died down to a subdued but threaten¬ 
ing crackle. In the dimness they turned to each other. 

“Slaves?” he repeated. “Not to us.” 

“Well — to the life you create, to the passions you 
arouse in us. Oh, you don’t know what it is to be a 
woman! I tell you it’s nothing less than horrible. Look 
at Meg, and Pheasant, and me! ” 

She caught the glint of a smile. He said: “ Look at 
Maurice, and Piers, and me! ” 


346 JALNA 

“It’s not the same. It’s not the same. You have 
your land, your horses, your interests that absorb almost 
all your waking hours.” 

“What about our dreams?” 

“ Dreams are nothing. It’s reality that tortures women. 
Think of Meg, hiding in that awful cabin. Pheasant, 
locked in her room. Me, grinding away in an office.” 

“I can’t,” he answered, hesitatingly. “I can’t put 
myself in your place. I suppose it’s awful. But never 
think we don’t know a hell more torturing.” 

“You do, you do! But when you are tired of being 
tortured you leave your hell — go out and shut the door 
behind you, while we only heap on more fuel.” 

“My darling!” His arms were about her. “Don’t 
talk like that.” He kissed her quickly, hotly. “There, 
I said I wouldn’t kiss you again, but I have — just for 
good-bye.” 

She felt that she was sinking, fainting in his arms. A 
swirl of smoke, perfumed by pine boughs, enveloped them. 
A rushing, panting sound came from the heart of the 
fire. The violins sang together. 

“ Again,” she breathed, clinging to him. “ Again.” 

“No,” he said, through his teeth. “Not again.” He 
put her from him and went to the other side of the bon¬ 
fire, which now blazed forth once more. He stood among 
his brothers, taller than they, his hair red in the firelight, 
his carved face set and pale. Recovering herself, she 
looked across at him, thinking that she would like to 
remember him so. 

In a pool of serene radiance, Grandmother sat. A 
black velvet cloak, lined with crimson silk, had been 
thrown about her shoulders; her hands, glittering with 
rings, rested on the top of her gold-headed ebony stick. 
Boney, chained to his perch, had been brought out to the 
terrace at her command, that he might bask in the light 


GRANDMOTHER’S BIRTHDAY 


347 

of the birthday conflagration. But his head was under 
his wing. He slept, and paid no heed to lights or music. 

She was very tired. The figures moving about the 
lawn looked like gyrating, gesticulating puppets. The 
jigging of the fiddles, the moaning of the flute, beat down 
upon her, dazed her. She was sinking lower and lower 
in her chair. Nobody looked at her. One hundred years 
old! She was frightened suddenly by the stupendousness 
of her achievement. The plumes of the bonfire were 
drooping. The sky loomed black above. Beneath her 
the solid earth, which had borne her up so long, swayed 
with her, as though it would like to throw her off into 
space. She blinked. She fumbled for something, she 
knew not what. She was frightened. 

She made a gurgling sound. She heard Ernest’s voice 
say: “Mamma, must you do that?” 

She gathered her wits about her. “ Somebody,” she 
said, thickly, “somebody kiss me — quick!” 

They looked at her kindly, hesitated to determine which 
should deliver the required caress; then from their midst 
Pheasant darted forth, flung herself before the old lady, 
and lifted up her child’s face. 

Grandmother peered, grinning, to see which of them 
it was, then, recognizing Pheasant, she clasped the girl to 
her breast. From that hug she gathered new vitality. 
Her arms grew strong. She pressed Pheasant’s young 
body to her and planted warm kisses on her face. “ Ha,” 
she murmured, “that's good!” And again — “Ha!” 


THE END 




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